


My Tornado

by leogrl19



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title of fic inspired by song, of the same name, by The Raveonettes. A series of shorts depicting f!Hawke and Isabela's relationship through the years. This is NOT a linear fic, and therefore, has no real order to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blur

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd post Isabela and Gaile's Kirkwall shenanigans for those who haven't read My Tornado, but are enjoying The Second Coming. I'll be posting You as well, which is a MoTA story featuring those two. Enjoy!

* * *

_"Fine. But there better be sex to make up for it later."_

* * *

They arrived at her Hightown estate in silence, the once more victorious Champion sharply heading up the stairs and to her room without so much as a word. She didn't even spare a backward glance to poor Bodahn when he enthusiastically greeted his mistress as usual, leaving the dwarf to look up to Isabela, a brow raised in innocent curiosity.

The pirate merely tsked, a small smirk curving her lips. "Oh, you know women, Bodahn. Time of the month and all."

It was an easy lie – one that seemed to satisfy the dwarf while also adding a delectable tinge of color to his cheeks – but one Isabela strangely could not take stock in. Hawke may have easily fooled the others of their party with that easy smile of hers and that clever tongue...Mmm, that _glorious_ tongue…What had she been thinking about? Oh, Hawke, their situation – right.

It was only behind closed doors that the layers began to melt away, and the other might as well have yelled her disapproval. Hawke had **that** look. That horrid one she only reserved for special occasions when 'blatant nonchalance' and 'inappropriate mockery' would not do. It even rivaled Merrill's puppy eyed, 'but I swear this wasn't supposed to kill everyone' stare, really, pricking a conscious the pirate was not supposed to possess. And ever since Isabela wished to play 'catch up' (among other things) with Zev before he departed from the Antivan camp, she'd been... **brooding**.

While attractive on that tattooed face of hers, those cute creases at her forehead while her brows knitted with obvious chagrin, Isabela knew that it had to be dealt with. Perhaps sooner, this time, rather than later.

And, it was not as if she had anything else to do. The Hanged Man was dreadfully dry until Corff got his new shipment in the following night.

Following the same path up the stairs, (after taking a quick moment to chuckle at her handiwork still upon the rail) she made her own approach to Hawke's room. Door not only unlocked, but completely ajar, the pirate took this as a good sign; one that saved her the hassle of picking the lock. Boldly, Isabela stepped into the quiet area, adding weight to her usually light steps and making sure there was no way the other rogue could miss that she now entered in all her glory. Immediately, a wall was picked to lean on, a leg instinctively propping up against it to catch her weight.

Greeted with only more silence; suddenly, the pirate did not know why she was here – in her room, waiting for acknowledgement. She should have left. A smarter person certainly would have. Yet, her making foolish decisions whenever Hawke was involved was becoming all but a common occurrence.

That alone made her want to strap a rather large rock to Hawke's body and toss her out in the sea. Or simply tie her up and ravage her. Maybe both at the same time? She'd have to think on that….

Resurfacing to the here and now, Isabela's eyes trailed the other woman as she moved about the space, the other finally lingering at her desk after bringing even more documents to add to the lovely mountain there.

Amber eyes rolling in exasperation, she finally let out a long-suffering sigh. "Are you going to do this silent, moody bit for the rest of the day? If so, I'd like to put in my bid that we skip to the part with all the dirty, _sweaty_ , make-up sex. Tell you what: I'll even let you use the rope on _me_ this time."

Subtlety? It might as well have been a line in the Chant for all the pirate knew of it.

Hawke didn't turn to look at her, seemingly more interested in the large amount of papers occupying her desk. "What does this mean to you?"

 _Way_ too serious. Her question held no ready undertone of mirth, and not one snide comment yet escaped her lips. She hadn't even commented on the rope.

 _Ah,_ **_balls_ ** _…._

"What?" Isabela removed herself from the wall and began to amble to the other side of the room. She would not be cornered. "Is there something on that bore of a desk I should be aware of?"

"Us-"

"On your desk for a quick tumble? _Mmm_ …We could, quite literally, fuck the system." A hand rested against her chin in thought. "Is it too late to retract the 'quick' part?"

"The two of us." There was a strain to her reiteration; apparently, her giving suggestion would not be taken advantage of. "Does it mean _anything_?"

"Hawke…"

A raised hand. "I want to know if this is how it'll always be. Even now..." It was a sentence left incomplete, "You're still petitioning others for sex?"

So, this **was** about Zevran. Though not in a promising way. "Look. Old habits...die hard, all right? And it's not as if it were just _anyone._ I told you before: the man's an _artist_. The things he can do to a woman's body…"

Hawke finally faced her. "Am I not enough?"

 _Shit_. This look was even worse. The vulnerable, 'you just seduced my faithful husband of ten years for one night of debauchery' kind. "You could have joined in, you know. I wouldn't have minded." In fact, Isabela wanted her to. Zev's mastery technique with Hawke's raw intensity? It would have been _spectacular_.

"Is that really all that matters to you?"

The pirate loosed yet another sigh, shoulders shrugging as she simply stared at the other woman, "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth, Isabela."

"And if that was the truth?" Her posture stiffened, "What then?" The barriers were rising up now; the damn woman just made it too easy, getting under her skin. She didn't even understand why they were having this bloody argument. "You told me not to have sex with Zevran, and I didn't. What more do you want?"

Hawke's brows furrowed, brown irises warring with equal parts frustration and possessiveness as she tried to fight her feelings, keep them from her face. The woman did not wish to say it, but she no longer had to.

_You. As mine._

With any other, Isabela would have ended things then and there before making a hasty retreat, realizing her partner wished to be far closer than she would ever desire. Something more than skin-deep. Yet, with the woman before her, a woman so unlike any other met before...she **_hesitated_**. She saw the need in those brown depths, and a deep **shiver** ran down her spine.

"Wait." A smirk was summoned effortlessly to her lips as she pushed off the furtherest wall, a natural sway coming to her hips as she began her approach. "Were you...jealous?" She chuckled, low and alluring. "You goose: you _were_ , weren't you?"

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "You're skirting the issue."

"Sounds more like I hit my mark." If the other wished a duel, verbal or otherwise, Isabela would rise to the occasion. The pirate continued her deliberate approach, her target never backing away. "Our illustrious Champion, reduced to growling at anyone who comes near what she believes hers."

An unexpected grin touched Hawke's lips, then, cheeky and unfazed. A sudden glimpse at how the woman usually behaved, and a sure indication she had struck a nerve. "Changing the focus of this conversation to me? I'm surprised, Isabela. Here I thought you were much too selfish for that."

That…came dangerously close to stinging. It shouldn't have, it shouldn't have come so close. Why – but she did not wish to think on it. Thinking these things out was not the reason she was alive today.

Isabela halted her advance, expression now sober as she crossed her arms. "I refuse to be yet another's plaything."

"Even if I'm yours?" That shit eating grin.

"There's a difference and you know it."

"I never wanted to own you. _You_ know _that_."

Did she? The woman never demanded anything from her, taking only what the pirate would give and never asking for more – even after she admitted…Until this day. And now all these… **thoughts** filled her head, these damnable **concerns**.

_Shit and balls…_

Hawke scoffed, taking her silence as a denial. "So, let's have it, then: it seems I'm the only one who hasn't asked the question. Is it only about the sex? Because you can get that anywhere."

"Not _good_ sex…" She would not say 'incredible, toe-curling' sex, even when it was. Her tongue had trouble enough releasing that awful quip.

"The lines before were clear. _You_ changed the rules, Isabela." Agitation began to make itself known in the other's body language, muscles tensing as she started to pace. "You told me that love wasn't for you and I respected that. We both agreed to use the other for a good time. Now, not a week after you say you're "falling" for me, you do this?"

The look Hawke gave her now – she couldn't stand it. It just, made something inside **twist** , and…Isabela turned away from the other woman, needing space, needing to see anything that was not her.

What she did, hurt Hawke. She understood that. It was never intentional. It just…was. Instinct.

The pirate bit her lip, willing the words forth. "I can't just…change, Hawke. I'm not like you." They had discussed this before. She would never be the hero, never find her balance. "That other person…There's not much left to her."

She felt more than heard the other step toward her, held her breath as Hawke's body settled inches away from her own. "I don't want you to change for me, Isabela. I just want to know where I stand in – in all this." A flicker. It did not happen often – they were too similar in the worst ways – but the uncertainty was there.

Isabela turned to her, somewhat jarred by that intensity: those auburn orbs, the other's warm breath faintly caressing her skin. "I know what I am, and I know what I'm not. It's gotten me far in life. But you, Hawke; you…" she despised the hesitation, despised this new lump that formed in the back of her throat, "blur the lines. I don't recognize myself when I'm with you. And I can't go back."

Hawke's mouth parted before her lips formed a tight line and she frowned. "Isabela…"

But, the pirate no longer wished to talk. Inches had been given, and now she needed to retract. For her own sake.

Isabela acted without warning, deft hands simultaneously tugging and unraveling the cord of the woman's robe, jerking her toward her – closer. A surprised gasp left Hawke before being smothered by the other's insistent lips, a second hand, after making quick work of the robe, squeezing a breast through the fabric of her shirt.

Hawke bit back a moan, managing to separate as she gasped for air. "What-"

"Wouldn't you rather I _show_ you?" Isabela purred, forcing the other backward while capturing those lips once more, a knee taking its time as it rubbed against the inside of her bare leg, reveling in the electrifying feel of skin on skin. "Actions…words, and all that." Her fingers glided down Hawke's back, pressing against certain junctures at her spine before finding its place on that wonderful ass, "Putting those lips of yours to better use..."

"You…You're…" The pirate caught her bottom lip, nipping and sucking on the tender flesh before attacking an exposed neck, tasting the skin only a few shades lighter than her own, "damn unfair…." Hawke could not stifle the second moan, the pirate all lips, tongue, and teeth.

"I'm merely collecting on a debt, sweet thing." They finally hit a wall, Isabela thrusting her hips into Hawke's with the impact before pinning her wrists above her head, her smirk at its finest as she witnessed the other woman's eyelids flutter. "And you still owe me a round of amazing sex."


	2. Sway

Abigaile (Gaile, to anyone in the city who happened to favor all their teeth) Hawke slammed a freshly drained mug on the wooden bar ledge, giving a quick flick of her hand to swipe a few dark strands from her eye before exhaling loudly.

"There's just no whiskey like Hanged Man whiskey. And by that, I mean its highly refined, yet surprisingly subtle taste of vomit and rat droppings." The rogue regarded her empty cup for a moment. "Ah, what the hell? It's not as if I have to venture along the Deep Roads tomorrow! Oh. Wait…" she leaned forward and slid a copper in Corff's direction. "'Nother round here!"

The bartender chuckled. "One whiskey, extra rat droppings, coming right up."

The rogue grinned, having the pleasure of knowing the man for a little over a year now and taking a liking to him. " _Extra_ ", Corff?" She placed a hand over her chest. "You'll make me swoon."

A new, but familiar laugh met her ears, hearty and altogether jovial. She smiled. _Isabela_.

"I thought that was you." With that undeniably appealing voice of hers, the Rivaini woman sauntered through the loose maze of tables. "A lone Hawke in my neck of the woods. _Ooh_ – that was clever." She smiled at her own ingenuity while readjusting her corset, "I should write that one down."

"Bela." Gaile offered in way of greeting, beckoning her near. "I dare say it's a party now." She appraised the woman and her slightly disheveled attire. "Well, you look like you just fell out of bed."

Isabela's smile shifted, the curve of it now deliciously sinful. "Out, in, on. I've done it all, sweet thing." She reached behind her back to tighten the knot of the wrap at her waist. "Not much bed time this round, though. The man had an obsession with walls and, particularly, banging me against them. The rough bits were nice, but the wall's the only one I'd consider mounting again."

The rogue shook her head and laughed. "You're shameless." The pirate's expression only grew; no pressing rebuttal there. "All bad, then?"

"I wouldn't call it a complete waste. He did know how to do this really _fun_ thing with his toes…" Isabela smirked, smoothly positioning herself behind the other woman's stool and pressing those ample breasts firmly into Gaile's back as lips brushed against her ear, "Feeling adventurous? I'm willing to sate that insatiable curiosity of yours…" her whisper was pure heat, "And any other insatiable parts to you."

Gaile managed to resist the urge to shiver, feeling the other's soft lips again. "Tempting…But, if you've still energy enough for all that, I'm guessing it couldn't have been too stirring a performance."

"Oh, _Hawke_ ," The pirate only pressed closer, each syllable dripping with lust, "you're making me all a _quiver_. Tell me that was a challenge."

"I'm merely suggesting that if you _were_ to ever get in these pants of mine, you wouldn't be able to prance around, tossing stories after." She leaned into the other's touch, craning her neck to glance backward until their lips were mere inches away, the air between thick with tension, "I wouldn't _let_ you."

Isabela pouted, though an amused twinkle in those amber eyes remained. "Cocktease." Releasing her catch, the pirate settled in the unoccupied seat next to her. "If I'm not getting sex out of you, you're buying me a drink. It's your damn fault I'm all hot and bothered now."

"You make it too fun to ruffle those feathers of yours!" The pirate shot her a look before yelling to Corff to make it a double. "Oh, you thought of something _dirty_ there, didn't you?" Gaile laughed before giving her attention to the bartender once more; the man seemed to wait for her word before proceeding, so she handed over four more bits as a confirmation. "Might as well make it a bottle. I have a feeling I won't be any more well-behaved tonight."

Corff nodded, telling her he'd get to it right after filling his current order.

Isabela's brow rose from the achievement. "You've gone and gotten him smitten, haven't you?"

"Well, yes: I'm the lovable scamp." Gaile scooted her stool closer. "What? You don't think Corff enjoys your pleasant company, anymore?"

"I don't tend to get noticed as easily. And that barmaid of his is always busy wagging her tongue at someone or other." She gave her best 'woe is me' sigh. "Last time, I damn near had to flash the goods to get that man's attention."

"Somehow, I don't think even that would faze him." The rogue grinned. "Your breasts just aren't the hiding type."

"If you've noticed, they're doing their job." Isabela quipped, a sly smile on her lips. "You'd see that and more if you'd just let me bed you."

"I like playing hard to get." And it was true. Sex had its perks, but she was brought up too well to open her legs to just anyone. Not that the pirate _was_ just anyone…But the point stood. "On Corrif, though; I'd say it's probably because he knows your type."

"My "type?" Her scoff was amused. "This should be good."

"Let's see…" The rogue tapped her chin in mock thought, "Lying, cheating, stealing pirate?"

"Hawke..." She said her name as if patiently dealing with a child, "You have to look at the bigger picture." Isabela smirked. "I'm good with locks too."

Two filled mugs of whiskey were then pushed up to both women, Corff placing a full bottle next to Gaile before she thanked him.

"A stiff one after a stiff one!" The pirate seized the drink and took a long swig before exhaling with satisfaction. "It's the simple pleasures, that make it, you know." Tossing back the rest of the alcohol in her impressive way, she playfully nudged Gaile with her elbow. "So, you're in a good mood."

"You mean a _generous_ mood?" Gaile asked, imbibing a healthy portion of her own drink before shrugging her shoulders casually. "It comes and goes."

A wink. "So do I."

She couldn't help a laugh – was it any wonder they got along as they did? The pirate had an absolutely wicked sense of humor and she loved it. "I'm patting myself on the back right now – though, less with my hand and more with copious amounts of cheap whiskey. It's not everyday a girl manages to raise fifty sovereigns to finally pay for a partnership that'll make her filthy rich. And, on top of that, still have enough coin to celebrate it."

"Cheers to that." Isabela raised her mug and Gaile tapped hers against it with an appreciative smile.

"It certainly promises to be an adventure…Or, we'll all die horrible, gruesome deaths." Another sip. "Good times to be had by all."

"Well, I'm glad I found you. I'd hate to see you drinking alone – and I'd hate missing you buying even more." She suddenly eyed her curiously. "Wait. Why _are_ you here alone? I've never seen you without at least one tagalong. Especially that pretty sister of yours."

"Isabela." It was the one thing Gaile did **not** joke with. Her sister was off limits.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm simply stating facts. And giving you a _compliment_." She smirked, openly ogling the other woman's body. "Good looks run in your family. I bet even Leandra got her hairs split back to back, in her day."

" _No_. Just _no_." The rogue took a quick gulp of her drink to burn **that** particular image out of her mind. "To answer your question: Bethany's with Mother trying to mollify her before setting out with us tomorrow, Aveline's busy with the guard, Fenris is...Fenris, Anders is writing some manifesto rant or other, and poor Merrill would have gotten lost."

"Varric?"

She nudged her head toward the upper level of the tavern. "Up in his suite still working a few more things out for Bartrand. He did say he'd be down later and to "save him a drink", since he'll "sure as hell need it"."

"That brother of his is a slippery bastard. And not in a good way." She spotted the look Gaile gave her and chuckled. "Trust me, sweet thing, there _is_ a good way. A _very_ good way." Isabela reached over her, (giving a marvelous view of her more shapely assets) and apprehended the whiskey bottle to provide herself a refill, only to finish the thing in one, large gulp; she poured herself another. "I suppose we'll have to make due with our own little celebration, then." The pirate raised her hand. "I vote, you buy us more whiskey and we drink the night away."

"Drunken stupor it is, then." The rogue turned on her stool to survey the mostly empty chairs, only a few occupied with some of the tavern's regulars. "Though, leave it to the Hanged Man to be practically dead the night I finally have coin enough to celebrate."

"It is a bit dull, isn't it? And the music. _Blech_." Isabela made a face, disapproval obvious when glancing to the minstrel further back. "For this city to have such a stick up its ass about Fereldens, you'd think they'd be above playing the exact same songs." Another mug was completely downed. "It's damn right depressing. All up here." The pirate motioned to her head. "Yet nothing at all down _here_." Her hands trailed the scant fabric loosely bundled at her thighs, fingers tracing the V where they met.

"Oh?" Something told her she would like where this was going….

"Now Antiva – Rivain." Her voice had that special lilt, now, the one that only came when she recalled something exciting enough for her to remember it in the first place. "All dark beats and sweaty limbs. The closest you'd get to sex without a stitch of clothing snatched off." A wicked gleam danced in those amber depths, "Not that you didn't immediately wind up naked afterward, despite the fact."

Gaile prided herself on her arsenal of grins, a thin, lazy creation now spreading across her lips from the thought of these exotic movements. "Sounds like my kind of dance. The "naked" bits particular... _fascinating_."

Isabela answered her masterfully executed grin with a rival half smirk, "I'll bet." The pirate turned her head, sparing a quick glance about before looking back to her, mischievous expression growing. "What do you say we…liven things here?"

It was those infamous phrases that got Gaile into trouble. Those tantalizing words she just could not resist. "What did you have in mind?"

"I think I'll give you a show. For the drinks."

"A "show"?" One of the rogue's brows raised questioningly. "You're not going to start stripping in the middle of the Hanged Man, are you? Because – while I will – I doubt Corff will appreciate it."

Isabela chuckled. "A dance, silly. You want to see it, don't you?" She lifted a hand, nails following the thin curve of the tattoo on her toffee cheek. "You have that delicious look on that face of yours. I'm a sucker for it, really." Downing what remained of her whiskey, Isabela snatched Hawke's drink and drained it as well before placing both mugs in front of her, their bottoms facing up. "Here. Just rap against those until you come up with a proper rhythm. You can handle that, can't you? Talented hands of yours."

Gaile could only nod, events simply surging, in their wonderful way, from the pirate's influence. "I do have a fine pair." She figured the particular innuendo would be appreciated. "Besides the whole killing thing, they're also frighteningly good at knitting. And knots. Can't forget the knots."

"I might have you prove that later…For now, hands on those mugs. Whatever you manage to come up with will determine the dance I do for you." Isabela parted with one of her devastating winks. "Make it good."

Gaile, eagerly grabbing the two mugs, turned to watch. The pirate did not walk: she **swayed**. Each hypnotizing incline of the hips, each fluid descent back down – she exuded sexuality and confidence both, looking not at all out of place when she found her spot in the middle of the tavern. And this? She could not lie – it **_excited_** her. Not just the prospect of seeing a foreign dance, but the woman herself: worldly and experienced, stepping foot in places she could only dream of.

It was a thing shared, she supposed: that innate penchant for travel.

Looking down at the cups in her lap, the rogue found herself suddenly at a loss. She knew simple songs from her childhood, Ferelden to their very roots with their rugged, simplistic charm. But, Antiva – Rivain? What sort of beats would they prefer? Dark, carnal rhythms eliciting sweaty forms was too hard to imagine; so instead, she focused on the pirate waiting on her. The provocative temptress and what her sound would be.

As she worked, Gaile briefly looked up to spot the corner of Isabela's mouth curling, no doubt from the effort in her initial attempts, rhythms sporadic as she often paused to consider their sound, before suddenly changing it when thinking of something new.

Until…

_Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap._

_Tap tap. Tap. Tap._ The slightest pause. _Tap._

A more transitional _tap_ , and it began anew.

"There it is…" The affirmation from the pirate left more as a sigh, Isabela's eyes closing as she heard the beat become more confident, her body beginning to rock to its pacing. "Louder, Hawke!"

The sitting woman grinned, acquiescing to her command before feeling more thick tendrils of excitement as she saw Isabela's arms begin a smooth ascent upward, hands and wrists writhing about each other sensually until they were placed above her head. It was only a moment she stood there, frozen in that position before she smiled, a deep _ripple_ taking her entire form.

Gaile found herself releasing a breath she did not know held, viewing the woman's body slowly wind and twist – all on one accord. Long, brown arms snaked in and out and her hips swung in tandem, belly convulsing to the beat with expert control as she slowly began to turn…Those arms continued to weave around each other, hands preforming more elaborate motions. The sweep of her hips was then exaggerated: Isabela's body shifted with it into a more deliberate turn, upper body arching backward as if in ecstasy while chocolate tresses poured from her blue scarf.

_Sweet Maker…._

The rogue swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. It couldn't be possible that the other woman's body remained a solid thing. Her every move was liquid, seamlessly flowing and crashing into the next like the sea she so adored. And then, her body would merely flutter; like silk at an artisan's hands, finely tuned muscles gently rippled across the canvas of her bronzed skin and simply melted into the next.

Varric made his way down to the base level of the tavern, massaging the heavy creases at his forehead before pausing at the end of the stairs. A wry grin immediately replaced the frustration that, earlier, marred his face as he watched the scene playing out before him: Isabela preforming a very _flexible_ dance and a certain business partner of his being completely rapt by it. Heading toward the back area, the dwarf motioned to an equally mesmerized minstrel, the man's mouth agape at the Rivani's performance.

His grin widened. "You – with the lute." The man reluctantly looked down to him. "See my friend there?" A silver was apprehended from a pocket of his jacket and expertly revolved between his fingers. "There's a piece in it for you if you follow her lead."

Eyes widening from the gilt of good coin, the lutist quickly nodded, tapping his foot to the same beat as the drumming woman before beginning to strum. It was a simple addition, but it matched the original rhythm well, adding little flourishes every now and then. Varric nodded his approval, placing the silver on a nearby chair before making his approach to his gaping friend.

"Hey, Hawke! You'll catch flies!"

"Varric?" Gaile, snapped from her trance, looked in the direction of the voice calling her, completely forgetting her role of maintaining the beat. Had her mouth been open? If so, she found it hard to care….

"Good to see you're having a good time." He motioned to the now silent mugs in her lap. "How about I take over that for you?"

Had that lute always been playing? "What? I-"

"You couldn't have thought I'd just let you watch all night." Isabela's dulcet tone was suddenly at her ear. "I have needs too, sweet thing." The pirate pried the empty mugs from her grasp and handed them to the dwarf, tugging on her wrists afterward. "Up you go!"

Varric only tipped one of the mugs in salute as she was whisked away, a knowing look on his face as he took her stool.

Isabela led and the other woman was compelled to follow her back to the place the pirate had claimed before, keeping her close as her body began its slow, fluid rhythm once more.

" _Dance with me_."

The throaty request lent a molten touch to her abdomen, Gaile's body suddenly moving of its own accord, the smell of her overwhelming, a heady combination of wood, salt and metal.

"Is this the part where you have your way with me?" She managed the joke, but it came more as a plea, body instinctively following the measured pace Isabela set for her. "I only ask that you be gentle."

"They'll be none of that. I plan to slam you against every wall here." The pirate tsked. "Though, you're definitely Ferelden. Here." She flowed behind her. "Like _this_." Gaile's breath hitched as Isabela's hands traveled down the sides of her stomach, slowly – so slowly – to her hips. "You have to roll these bits…Like a wave about to _crest_." Her words were sweet and low, a verbal caress, "Your entire body shuddering with it as it travels down…before its released." She could **hear** the smirk in her tone. "Like after a good rutting."

Gaile swallowed thickly, doing her best to emulate the other woman's movements and not, say, slam her into…well, the nearest thing that would support their combined weights. It wasn't as if she couldn't always blame the alcohol…

The rogue grinned from the thought. "This was all just an excuse to feel me up, wasn't it?"

" _Mm_ …" The amorous sound vibrated against her back, "You'll ruin the brilliance."

She chuckled, suddenly spinning around, "And you'll get a much better feel this way…"

Her pulse quickened when she heard Isabela coo, the pirate placing a hand at the dip of her waist with the clear intent of bringing their bodies closer. Gaile softly gasped when they made contact, reveling in the softness and warmth that contrasted with the electricity of the pirate's firm hold.

And it returned. That **_thrumming_**. It always started when the other woman was around, but it was quiet – something she could ignore. But then Isabela looked at her, dark lashes low over seductive honey orbs – a literal force of desire – and suddenly it was **everywhere**. Mad pulses driving each nerve to an intense buzzing that made her head swim with need.

Isabela smirked, as if reading her mind, draping both arms around the other rogue's neck and pulling her closer. The music was gone, overtaken by the harsh pounding in her chest as Gaile's eyes flicked to her small, gold piercing before looking up to those full lips…

Varric gave them both a round of applause.

"I shit you not, Rivaini; you'd make even the most priggish chantry sister forget her vows." The dwarf smirked as he made his way to them. "Thing is: I need my partner well rested for tomorrow. Something I doubt will happen with what you have in mind." Varric lifted his hands in surrender as Isabela glared at him. "Now, now, don't fret: I'll let you have her back after we're done playing 'Wardens' down in the Deep Roads."

Gaile untangled their limbs, smiling sheepishly. "Duty calls." She leaned in, mouth near her ear to deliver the whisper. "It was _fun_."

"Go ahead and meet me up in my suite, Hawke. There are a few new things we need to discuss. Nothing major, but I thought you'd like to know about them before we set off."

She waved a hand nonchalantly. "Right, right…"

Isabela sighed, watching the woman's ass as she ascended up the stairs. "Spoilsport."

"I don't know, Rivaini, I'd say you're starting to get desperate." He chuckled. "Private dances?"

The pirate smirked. "I go for what I want. And have you seen her when she fights? All that _stamina_ …I get tingly just thinking about it. Betting on it just makes it all the more interesting." She shot him a look. "Admit it. You helped."

Varric shrugged. "What can I say? I happen to like it when a good plot thickens. And all this will make a great story."

"Only because she's as much a tease as you." She toyed with his jacket's lapel. "I _still_ have dreams about all that _chest hair_."

"Mm-hm." The dwarf held his hand out.

The pirate grinned, dipping a hand underneath the fabric that covered her breasts to pull out two silvers. "I hope you're happy. Now I can't even go to the Blooming Rose."

Varric pocketed the coins with a chuckle. "Better luck next time, Rivaini."


	3. Inquisition

**Apathy**

"I received a letter from her not long ago." Merrill leaned forward in her chair, a cup of water gingerly offered to the Champion; its murky depths quivered.. "It was…Well, I was happy to see she's all right." She gave a slight pause here, an invitation for the other to say something – anything at all – but was not indulged: the Dalish pressed on. "The penmanship was also very legible – I wonder if that was hard with a hook?" She cocked her head, curiosity plain. "Do you suppose she really does have a hook for a hand now?"

Gaile shrugged her shoulders, a smile on her lips and her eyes to a wall. "Anything's possible with that one."

"I do miss her." She hurriedly clasped her mouth, as if the words themselves would become physical, piercing things. "That's the wrong thing to say, isn't it? Especially to you. Not with all that's happened. Between you and Isa-" The other woman grinned as the elf snapped her mouth shut a second time, looking very much apologetic as those big, green eyes of hers filled to the brim with sympathy. " _Oh_! I'm so sorry!"

The rogue chuckled. "Merrill: stop. If you become any more adorable, I might actually explode. Or giggle. Maker, I don't know which is worse…" Seeing that the elf's expression had not brightened, she gave an indifferent gesture of her hand. "No harm done."

"Hawke…The letter. She…" her voice was soft; unsure, "mentioned you in it. I could…tell you what she said, if you like. Or, give you the letter. You could read it – I wouldn't mind."

"No." The elf visibly flinched from the abrupt answer and Gaile's tone swiftly adjusted. "The thorn's been plucked out, Merrill – why force it back in?"

"A "thorn"? But…Well, she didn't seem like it. A thorn would be painful – especially if stuck in one's foot." She looked to her mostly bare feet, as if remembering the unfortunate incident, before slowly glancing upward. "The two of you together…You were always smiling or laughing when she was around. You seemed…" another break as she seemed to mull over which word would fit best, "happy."

The rogue smiled here, but it did not settle right; she abandoned it, eyes to the wall, once more. "She was a fun thorn."

Her brows knitted together, "I did it again, didn't I? Made you uncomfortable." The elf sighed. "I…Are you sure you're all right? I know you're the _Champion_ now, and champions don't need to talk about these sorts of things in the stories – _ever_. But…I bet it's lonely keeping those things to yourself all the time." Their eyes met again. "Wearing that armor."

"I'm fine, Merrill." An inclined brow as she glanced back to her, "And shouldn't you worry more about that _shiny_ , magic mirror of yours?"

"Oh! Did it finally do something different?" The Dalish quickly looked behind herself only to frown when witnessing nothing had changed. "Hawke!"

Gaile grinned wryly as the other pouted. "Made you look."

* * *

**Lethargy**

"You should have expected this." Aveline paced the length of her office, the armor she vigilantly wore clanking in response with each furious step. "The whore – how could she know anything otherwise? And _you_." She turned her full attention to the Champion reclining in her chair – an act where no other would live to tell the tale. "You should have known better than to…cohort with her."

"Her?" Gaile lazily twirled the hardened nub of one of the quills, apprehended from the other's desk, between her fingers. "Why, dear Captain: whoever could you be referring?"

"Don't." Her glare was immediate. "You know _exactly_ who I'm talking about. And I know you too well for that grin of yours to work. You pulled the exact same act when Bethany and Leandra-"

"Aveline." The quill dropped soundlessly to the wooden desk. "I'm fine." Her voice, as well as her expression, was now somber. "It was a fling. The two of us weren't looking for forever."

"Oh?" The captain's eyebrow sharply rose. "Out with it then. What exactly _were_ you looking for with that one?"

"A good time." The grin returned. "What else?"

Her disapproval was all but palpable. "I told you this: it's _never_ just sex. And I've seen the way you've regarded her." The woman crossed her gauntleted arms. "I don't like this. You've been far too quiet, lately. Avoiding the Hanged Man, staying out of trouble-"

"What's this? No glowing sense of accomplishment? You've gone and got the mighty 'Champion' whipped."

The other's humor was not shared. "It isn't like you, Hawke. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't like to see you restrain yourself every once in a while – more often than that, even – but not like this. You're forcing it. Because of _her_." The last word came harder than the others, as if the guard captain despised the very fact her 'pirate whore' held so much sway.

The rogue leaned back in the chair, arms angled as she placed both hands behind her head. "There's just not much to do, is all. Besides," Gaile pouted, "I'm still _sore_. And, aren't you the one who told me to "take it easy" after defeating the big, bad Arishok?"

"For _her_ honor. When it it couldn't be any clearer she has none." The creases on Aveline's forehead only seemed to deepen. "Honestly, Hawke: fighting the leader of those qunari in some bullheaded notion of bravado?" She scoffed. "Be glad your wounds _are_ still fresh, or I'd give you a good smack for that stunt here and now. Not that it would knock any sense in that head of yours…"

"I got a bit caught up in the moment, there, didn't I?" Gaile chuckled. "I don't know, the words just seemed so _dashing_ at the time. A fight to the death so delightfully... _cliché_. I just couldn't resist." She smiled. "At the very least, it's something nice for Varric to exaggerate when he retells the tale for his eager audiences. I'd truly be shocked if I wasn't galloping in on some handsome black steed by now."

"What's done is done. But, whether you like it or not, _you're_ the Champion of Kirkwall now: everything you do will either bode well or ill for this city. Needless to say, you'll be the expected pillar that everybody leans on while it recovers."

"Well, that just sounds uncomfortable for everyone involved…"

Aveline shook her head, brows rutting in aggravation. "Why? Why can't you ever take any of this seriously?"

"Because you take everything _too_ seriously. I'm your counterpoint, remember? You'd go crazy without me."

"I'm driven crazy _with_ you."

"Then it's a win, win!" The look on the other woman's face spoke clearly that she remained unconvinced; the rogue sighed. "Oh, Aveline: always so protective…"

"You've never been as clever as you think, Hawke. That…woman," she had the decency to not call her what she no doubt wished to, "meant something to you. Even _I_ could see it – a blind man could." Aveline gave her **that** look. "Running from the issue solves nothing."

"Seemed to do the trick for her." The captain frowned, while Gaile shrugged, looking to the fallen quill. "She's moved on. So will I." The rogue picked it up and played with it once more, before meeting her best friend's gaze. "Really; I was only holding out until you broke things off with Donnic." That lopsided grin. "You must know you're the only woman for me."

"Hawke." Her tone was impatient; frustrated.

"What?" The woman stood from the chair, grin only escalating. "I like redheads."

* * *

**Negligence**

Fenris silently regarded the wine bottle, armored fingers charily clasping around its delicate neck. "It is insufficient, but…when that woman blathered on as she did – on intimate matters while we traveled." He did not meet the Champion's gaze. "Never did she act on them."

Gaile wiped her mouth with her sleeve after a long, deep swig of the Tevinter wine. "Huh." She waved the bottle he had offered back and forth to indicate its emptiness. "Got any more?"

* * *

**Petulance**

Anders loosened the red brown bandages about the Champion's torso, carefully unwrapping one of the rather large injuries she received from the duel with the Arishok before beginning to apply a thick salve. "That Isabela…" his voice came close to a growl, and the rogue could feel his glare on her back, "She…How could anyone – _anyone_ – be so _selfish_? I could live a thousand years and never understand it."

Gaile winced, hissing her objection as he suddenly applied the salve a tad too roughly. "Here's a thought. How about we talk about something a bit more lighthearted while you're treating my wounds? Like your opinion on Meredith and her Templars."

The mage sighed as his touch immediately lightened once more. "Forgive me, I just…get so riled up when I think of it. The only reason you even have these damn injuries is because of her. That this entire city is in the state it's in, is her influence!" His fingers paused against her skin. "She lied to you, Hawke – from the start, she lied." A slight pause, "Tell me you hate her. You _must_."

"Calm, Anders," she turned slightly to show the whisper of a grin, "you'll start glowing." The rogue looked away, eyeing the splintered doors of the clinic hovel, "Life's too short for hatred." She chuckled. "I'm usually too busy avoiding all the sharp, pointy objects aimed at my neck."

"Most being from her influence! You could have died because of her precious relic – you nearly did!"

Gaile closed her eyes, unresponsive. It was such an interesting thing, witnessing how people spoke to her of the pirate, and their…relationship, only when the other was now gone.

"Hawke. She _abandoned_ you. You risked your life trying to save hers – to fix her damn mess – and she repaid you by running away." He scoffed, the sound bitter. "She didn't even stay long enough to see if you'd recover!"

"What would you have me do?" She snapped, and it felt all wrong: a weighty silence settling between them immediately afterward as once tense shoulders slumped forward. "She's gone. Leave it be."

A stiffening before Anders's fingers resumed their practice. "You've lost weight."

"It's common, isn't it? In this sort of situation?"

"No. It shouldn't be this sudden." His brows furrowed with concern. "Are you eating?"

"Yes, Anders." Gaile droned, rolling her eyes. "When I have the appetite for it." The rogue then sighed. "I mostly try to sleep the days away. Helps with the restlessness and utter boredom that comes with my _condition_. That, and Aveline would likely have my head if it even appeared I breathed in Varric's direction – let alone, take a job."

"You _should_ rest. Surprising as it may be, your body hasn't fully recovered from fighting all those qunari." He grabbed for some fresh bandages and another ointment. "This will sting a bit." She nodded, grunting softly as the burning liquid touched her torn flesh. "Done. I want to make sure this doesn't get infected."

She scoffed, grunting in discomfort when she moved the wrong way and stretched the burning gash. "Is that why you can't just heal the damn thing and be done with it?"

"Right. The wound would close, but with all the nasty bits still inside. Trust me: it would only make an injury like this worse." The mage clasped the jars he had opened and began the process of re-bandaging. "But, seeing as you make a hobby of running into certain death situations, I'll say a couple more weeks of this, and you should be up and running again. Until you end up back in here from your latest adventure, of course."

The woman grinned. "Of course…"

* * *

**Diversion**

"Well, well." Varric glanced up from a large map strewn across his regular table, placing his drink down with a grin. "If it isn't our glorious Champion, come to visit this lowly dwarf."

"There's a wonderful pun in that, somewhere…" Making her way to her good friend, Gaile grabbed one of the other chairs another table offered, and dragged it over, "And you just _should_ feel honored. Do you know how hard it is to sneak around when everyone in this blasted city knows your name?"

"Can you blame them?" His grin grew. "You, Hawke, are a woman as beautiful as she is deadly – all while regularly enjoying the company of handsome dwarves. It would be a crime if people didn't talk about you."

"Why, Varric." Her tone was mockingly sweet, "For a second there, it almost sounded as if you _hadn't_ been fanning the flames."

"I, madam, am merely a weaver of tales. I hold no claims on how people will react after hearing them. And, everyone loves a living legend – makes their own lives seem more important."

"Well, I'll blame you, regardless. Right after I faint from that silver tongue of yours."

He chuckled. "You'll get used to it soon enough. And let's not forget the perks that come with being a hero. Big, fancy title. Adoration from men and women alike." His hand grasped his mug, tilting it toward his lips for a quick gulp before continuing. "I've even heard talk of a Hawke monument in the near future."

"I suppose the nobles have little else to do with their coin. The ransacked city will just have to wait its turn." The rogue scoffed, "This whole 'Champion' business has given me nothing but a constant headache from day one. Too much responsibility. I can practically hear the nobles shouting for my assistance in _every_ nuance of their lives from here." She sighed wistfully. "Why can't I go back to those wonderful nights of meaningless sex, drunken depravity, and-?"

"Isabela?" The dwarf did not miss a beat.

Gaile closed her eyes, assigning two fingers to rub her suddenly throbbing temple. "Not you, Varric…"

He raised his hands. "Hey, now; I think I'm allowed a bit of innocent curiosity every now and then. And, the two of you had quite the spirited debate before she ran off." The lines of his face deepened with a new gravity, one rarely seen with the man, "She didn't take the time to say anything else after that battle to anyone but you."

Slender brows furrowed as the rogue suddenly looked away, mind unconsciously bringing the event to mind. Labored breaths, words with heat, piercing eyes – _lips_ ….

"Brown eyes smoldering, the scorned Champion thought on her past lover…"

Those same eyes snapped to him from the open narration. "It meant nothing." Her words answered questions left unasked.

"Even I couldn't twist that." The dwarf shook his head. "Look, Hawke…You know that I'm here, if you ever wanna talk about…well, shit."

But she had had enough. "Varric, we both know each other well enough to realize we want to be drinking right now. The Hanged Man is as good as any other to get shitfaced. And with that, I mean it's the _only_ place." Hawke waved a hand to catch the barmaid's attention; the champion gaining it immediately, she held two fingers up before grinning back at her friend. "Because I'm such a kind and compassionate soul."

The dwarf smirked, rolling up the map he had been looking over and presenting a deck of cards in its stead. "Well, if you're going to be logical about this…"

* * *

Yes.

It had all become so effortless. Routine. Until the recovering rogue found herself simply going through the motions when alone.

A polite greeting from Bodahn.

A large smile from Sandal.

A happy bark from her Mabari.

All of these events necessary before the Champion of Kirkwall would retire to her chambers to face the formidable 'Quiet' once more, each tread braved, surely, more arduous then the last.

She would not look to the banister.

Eyes straight, her pace remained solid, a constant reminder of what she refused to allow – even while in the process of being stripped bare as memories of duet ascents bludgeoned with their clarity. Avoiding a straying gaze was key: the master of the estate passed her late mother's room, before sharply heading toward her own.

The wooden door would shut and the outside defenses became unnecessary, each peeling away as cleanly as the pieces of her carefully removed armor. Slipping into her custom finery before securing a seat at her writing desk, the woman sifted through the bundle of sealed and rolled letters that made their way to her throughout the day. Invitations; requests; missives of gratitude.

All work to keep one busy. Certainly nothing that would go so far as to aggravate her newly received wounds.

And there would be a moment or two where this life would appear bearable. A moment where her brain remained three steps ahead of her heart. When her sole concern would be to think of something equal parts witty and clever to give in reply to some nobleman looking to ultimately gain her suspended favor.

Until unreasonable tendrils of pressure made their press against the back of her eyes, and the hot tears fell of their own accord, a wet descent as swift as it was unexpected. And then it became instinct: self-preservation as fingers darted wildly to her cheeks only to still not be quick enough.

She could not catch them – she could not-

"Dammit…" The parchment she had been using was now rendered useless, trembling hands driving her quill to produce sentences that soon dwelled in the realm of incoherency, " _Dammit_ …."

The writing tool was abandoned before she crumpled the tear stained vellum in a tight fist and hurled it at the wall in frustration, stinging moisture blurring the woman's vision as her entire form shook with the unbidden release of a choked sob.

It was not supposed to be like this. It was not supposed to be this terrible silence – this **_hollowness_** in her life. There was supposed to be chaos, and meaningless words, and physical responses - until she could not think. The fleeting presence before a sure departure. _She_ was supposed to be here - to continue to provide that constant distraction from realties the Champion did not wish to face. Ones a forced inactivity made glaringly clear, the gaping abyss that was the loss of everyone that was held dear.

Brother.

Sister.

Mother.

And what had _she_ been?

A preoccupation. A good time. Repose...when there had been nothing else - no one else, to distract her from realizing what she irrevocably was. _Is_.

Alone.

Abigaile curled into herself in the large chair, the in and out of her breaths now shallow as quivering lips parted to whisper only one name.


	4. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 4 and 5 are companion chapters: same content, different POVs.

* * *

" _You just…have to be patient with me. I want to be someone you'd be proud to be with."_

* * *

Isabela stared intently at one of the drab walls surrounding her, amber eyes trailing the agonizing creep of dawn, a nearby window just allowing those infringing, pale rays to paint its surface.

 _Bastard_.

Long, naked fingers continued to drum impatiently against burgundy sheets as she abandoned the languid crawl of the phenomena, only to begin anew her study of the room's beige walls. There were three scuff marks, one irregular indentation, and a countless (she had actually _tried_ , dammit) number of tiny cracks across the blasted things. All of these positively _stirring_ observations making one thing painfully clear.

She was **_nervous_**.

Yet, still, it was… _more_.

The pirate felt too _giddy_ , too _blissful_ – and all those other spectacularly _horrid_ things that made her mind spin and body twitch. This new outpour of 'feelings' as unwelcome as she felt now, in a certain bed, while Kirkwall's 'Champion' slumbered beside her.

What they had done last night (over and over; Hawke was deliciously _insatiable_ given the right… _motivation_ ) had, in parts, been foreign; a newfound intimacy that went beyond pure physical. She…found herself _wanting_ to please the other woman, _express_ all these damnable emotions Hawke roused the only way she truly knew how. And that in itself – it was just **_wrong_**. It had always been _her_ pleasure first, a body for the night nothing more than a convenient tool for _her_ satisfaction. The scratch would have been itched and she would have promptly taken her leave.

 **No** strings. **No** attachments.

But now the damn strings were everywhere, as inexplicably tangled as their aching bodies had been, panting their release…Until the pirate was wrapped so tight – pulled so deep – she could no longer tell where she ended and the other began. A **hunger** took her. Hands, lips, teeth in a near crazed desperation; desperation on her part to elude words, to _prove_ to Hawke… _something_ , even as both their forms convulsed to a well known pleasure. Sweat slicked limbs wrapped impossibly tight….

It all…touched something it shouldn't have. Scared the living _shit_ out of her. Because all those things didn't come from 'just sex'. That was flesh, and tension, and heat – not _need_ and…

Hawke suddenly shifted on the large bed and Isabela's breath hitched, pulse erratic as her entire body went unnaturally cold…Until the rogue let out a deep sigh as she settled onto her stomach, smacked her lips, and grinned before snuggling deeper into her pillow.

Isabela had to keep herself from _throttling_ her. Even when sleeping, the other woman was **_insufferable_**.

And she, herself, was, apparently, a masochist.

Never in their relationship had the pirate ever chosen to linger in the other's bed until daybreak. It was a gesture…too intimate. Too…everything she did not stand for, bringing expectations she would not keep. Even now, her body buzzed with a near frantic energy, every instinct she possessed demanding she withdraw this very instant.

Why allow such unsolicited torment? Over another? This was not her.

 _Leave_.

But then her gaze would inevitably settle on the sleeping beauty, linger at those luscious lips parted with the soft exhale of repose. Trail the long, chestnut locks splayed wildly about pillow and face – and that scrumptious skin: a smooth, caramelized brown, yet as sturdy as the wood of the finest ship. The dark sheets teased her mercilessly, fabric inched down from Hawke's earlier movements. A shoulder, mid-back now exposed… unapologetically revealing the start of an old scar.

Isabela hesitated for the briefest of seconds before defiantly reaching a finger out; she softly placed the pad of it on the puckered mark and winced, as if mere touch could sear her. This discolored, gnarled strip of flesh that remained as such an ugly reminder of her choices and the other's foolishness. A lasting proclamation of the lengths the other would go to save her.

Just with the thought, she felt it: welling up in waves, tightening her throat with pride. She did not _ask_ to be saved. Nor had she _needed_ it. All of it, **arrogance** – the highest form. To simply decide to fix another's mess, a mess they had not created, the basis of ownership. A fate decided for her…She would not be left in such a situation again. Handed over for a few gold pieces and a goat. Treated as nothing more than a mere **_possession_** _,_ to be hung and displayed as a symbol of another's influence-

"Mmph…" the pirate's hand immediately retracted when realizing her touch had become too severe, _Shit_. "Isabela?"

The woken woman tried to keep the surprise from touching her tone, but failed. How could she not? Hawke had to be shocked. _She_ was shocked. It was clear she wasn't expecting to wake up to see the woman still lying next to her. And why should she?

This was obviously a **mistake**.

Isabela glanced at the large window, sun now bursting through the murky horizon. "Thought I'd stick around and see what the morning ritual at the Hawke estate was like." Nonchalance coated her tongue well, even as her mind swam frantically for the paltry excuse. A leg spilled from the bed's covers, dangling in open air as toes flexed apprehensively.

She could leave – _escape_. If she really wanted to.

A nod. "Ah." And that was all, the rogue propping up on her side. "Not too different from yours, I'm sure; I just happen to be in bed this time." Isabela did not have to look to know the other was now grinning. "I usually climb out of whatever ditch I happen to be in, gargle with a bit of ale, spit _away_ from the wind – that's _important_ – and then begin to think on how much havoc I can wreak on everyone's plans for the day."

She cast a sideways glance. "Even lady man-hands?"

Hawke _had_ been grinning. " _Especially_ lady man-hands."

"Well, then: you have my approval." The calf was replaced as the pirate turned to her with a raised brow. "You know…looking as you do now; I might do it more often –" mischief danced in her eyes, "the bed thing. I like this 'just woken up' look. Messy." She tousled a few loose strands of the other's hair, appreciating her naturalness while in the buff. "Like you've just had a good _lay_."

Gaile chuckled. "A pirate _plundered_ me booty."

Isabela smirked: in one fluid motion, strong thighs were draped on either side of the woman's hips, mounting her. "Another go?"

"Only at the risk of sounding desperate…" The rogue's fingers made an electrifying trail down the side of her ribs. "Though, before we begin," her digits pressed firmly against the sensitive area, eliciting a pleased response, "I'd like to know why you're really here."

The pirate froze…before burying her face in the crook of Hawke's neck. Really, she hated the other woman at times, how she could so easily cut to the heart of any matter – manage to see her for what she really was.

"We've gone over this, haven't we?" Her body moved closer, dark lips at her ear as hot breaths paid homage to the delicate flesh. "I was curious to see Kirkwall's Champion before she put on her face."

"I see." A breath's pause. "What now?"

"Apparently, not sex." Isabela sighed, rolling off the other woman only to settle on her back, brows furrowing. "This is silly. I want to leave, and I can't. Because of you." She rolled her eyes. "Shocking, I know."

Gaile tsked, "What ever shall I do? I've a woman who never wishes to be tied down, but holds no objections, whatsoever, to being tied _up_."

The pirate chuckled, despite herself: _that_ had been proven last night; she did say she would let the other use the rope for once. "The latter's more fun."

Silence.

Hesitation.

"I don't want you uncomfortable. If you left now, I wouldn't be upset."

"I _can't_." Isabela glared at the ceiling as if it were the culprit that made her repeat the phrase. "Every time I manage the balls to go, all I see is that bloody hurt expression of yours."

"I overreacted. You didn't have sex with Zevran. That…" another flicker, "I know you're trying."

But 'trying' was no longer **good** enough. If only she could just say it.

_Say it._

"Hawke…I…would." She watched as the other woman shifted toward her, a single brow raised inquiringly. "Change. For you." Her amber orbs flicked away, fleeing those penetrating depths. "With time."

"No."

It was all made so effortless, the way she said it, and the pirate felt something in her chest _flutter_ and her insides _squirm_. "You're damn annoying sometimes, do you know that?"

"And I was going for 'charming'…" the rogue was never overt, yet she could _feel_ the transition, "I don't want you to change – that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?"

Gaile blew out a sigh, running a hand through her loose curls. "Would you change me?"

"Of course I would!" She scoffed. "I'd pluck that butter heart of yours, to start, and that damned compassion while I was at it. Not to mention the fact that you tend to get involved in everyone's problems when there's no need for it." The pirate crossed her arms. "Besides all that, you _snore_."

"Well, it's not as if I would _know_." She gave a good pout. "And here I thought that would be one of the main things you adored about me. Well…I'm going to have to rethink this entire relationship, aren't I?"

Isabela laughed: the woman was _fun_. It was one of the reasons she…

A frown.

Why? Why was it still so hard to admit?

 _Because you don't want to disappoint_ **_her_ ** _._

Love? The falling bit? Boom – done. She was there. Simple. Loving another person, being a sole dependent to their happiness…was a different matter entirely. It took dedication and loyalty, and all those other things she made no time for. But…she found herself _wanting_ this. _Wanting_ …to be good enough for a person who was too damn good for her.

"Bela," Hawke was suddenly there, at her side, conjuring warmth in her easy way as the other placed a kiss on her shoulder, "talk to me…."

She bit her lip: it shouldn't be so hard. "When I left…" the rogue stiffened, "How did you handle it?" She had departed many times, but she knew the other would know of which she spoke as she mentally prepared to navigate this verbal deathtrap.

Neither had truly spoken on those three years. Not really.

"Well, it was mostly sunshine and rainbows. _Oh_ – and this grand parade where all the mages and Templars danced and frolicked about Kirkwall. Shame you missed that."

A wall – more than satire. The pirate found she couldn't press; if she did know the other as well as Hawke knew her, then it all had to be just as aggravating. She waited. Until the other eventually abandoned her shoulder and rested her head on top her lap.

"Why did you leave?" It came after a short lifetime.

"Why did _you_ fight the Arishok?" A reflex.

"I like being the hero." Isabela continued to stare and her grin faltered. "I couldn't let you go." The admission appeared almost crippling as auburn orbs diverted. "Why did you leave?"

She must have practiced to do that, say those words so calmly. "It was…too much. The book, the duel…you. I needed to get away from it all. Step back." _Catch my breath._ The pirate usually loved storms, sought them out: the thrill of them – the _rush_ – but Hawke…took her breath in a way she was unused to. The rush, the thrill; it was no longer _her_ choice. And now she found herself **_craving_** it…

Isabela felt the other's thumb massaging her lower back, small, soothing circles as she waited patiently – always patiently. The pirate sighed.

"Do you remember what that Qunari said? That I was 'unworthy'?" Her forehead creased, wrinkles, there, now prominent. "It shouldn't have meant anything – I _know_ me – but it did. It…I didn't deserve what you did for me all those years back." She felt that damnable lump return to the back of her throat. "I don't deserve you."

There. She had finally reached the heart of it.

Now, if she could just fall on her own dagger….

"What do you deserve?" Gaile shrugged, as if it were all insignificant. "What do any of us?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're a bloody champion, Hawke. You deserve whatever good the world gives you."

"And if I want only you?"

Brown depths connected – possessiveness finally voiced. Gaze and word combined…Her face flushed with its heat.

 _Shit…_ ** _Shit_**.

The pirate couldn't stand how…She'd be damned if she'd say ' _perfect_ ' like some swooning, lovesick…Ah, **_hell_**. But she **_was_**. Hawke…stayed. She just **_stayed_**.

There were times, times Isabela was not proud of, where she _wanted_ to hurt her – wanted to cause enough pain so the foolish woman would just **_go_**. In her own, twisted way, she did what she did in hopes that the other would find someone – _anyone_ – that was not her.

"Why?" It was soft. Too soft. Isabela couldn't bring herself to look at her after that betrayal of her own voice.

Gaile rose, bringing a hand to cup her cheek, gently bringing conflicted honey orbs her way. "Why"?" She repeated, tone questioning.

"Why don't you…You're always just _there_." She wanted to scream it, smack the words 'what's _wrong_ with you?' across the other's cheek until all that was left was an angry, red mark that could no longer be ignored.

Anything to get a reaction. Anything to get something that was not the wooden grin she gave everyone else.

There were several painful seconds where Hawke merely sat there, studying the dark, engraved wood of the bed frame…before regarding her. "I'd like…something constant in my life. It doesn't…Well, it doesn't seem to want to happen, does it?" The rogue smiled, an impostor; the pirate felt something inside…break, at the sight of it. "So, I thought to myself: maybe, if I can be a constant in someone else's life – in a life that has no constants, either – that could be enough. Even if she didn't want it…" She nudged her head indifferently, that hollow smile lingering on her lips. "I lose everything, you keep nothing…Seems like it would work."

Isabela _hated_ it – every part. Looking in the other's eyes…It was now painful: a mirror forced upon its viewer, reflecting every hurt; every ache….

The other continued, "You're…uncomplicated – because you don't allow anything else. I get what I see." Everything about her was neutral. "No expectations."

The pirate found herself frustrated – then immediately frustrated at being frustrated in the first damn place. "And I _should_ like that. The unpredictability of it, not knowing where all this is going – it should give a thrill. But it doesn't. It just… _doesn't_." It had always been _her_ game – _her_ rules. But now… "It's not enough." The pirate shook her head, trying to find…whatever it was she wanted to say, "It's…no longer enough…"

Isabela saw the hesitance, could see the wheels turning in the other's head; they both treaded lightly.

"What are you saying?"

"I shouldn't _be_ here." It all came back to that single fact. She shouldn't have stayed – in her bed; in the city: she **_never_** stayed. "I have a _ship_."

"You have me."

"You…" she sighed, exasperated, "It's not that simple."

"I wasn't meant for an easy life, Isabela. I thought that fairly obvious." Gaile's hand traced across the skin of her cheek until she met hair, running her fingers through the uncovered, chocolate mane. "What if it _is_ that simple?"

"It isn't. You should want more. I should…" **_be_** _more._ Her tongue felt heavy and useless.

"Here's the thing:" the rogue motioned to the window, "Kirkwall wants their Champion: their 'Serah Hawke'. Not the long days, not the sleepless nights – that would be in poor taste." There was a pause here, a flash of bitterness – before the moment was gone. "You do. Good, bad – you know _me_. I don't need to be anything else."

Hawke tried to convince her. She found she _wanted_ to be convinced.

"I just…" it was _this_ part that was so terrible: feeling completely powerless, "don't know when everything changed. Now, I look at you, and something's always there. And if I don't say these things, _show_ them-" her hand flew to her chest, writhing into a claw, " _that_ happens." Her eyebrows knitted together, willing her gaze to not waver when their eyes met. " _Dammit_ , Hawke: you've gone and changed it all…"

"Isabela." Her voice was steady. "It's enough. You don't have to-"

" _No_ – I need to say this. If I don't…It'll never get said." The pirate inhaled, letting the air pass her lips in a slow, steady stream. _Now or never_. A personal mantra. "I'm…happy – with you. More than I should be." Sometimes, it was too much; she would realize how happy the other made her and despise it. Despise herself. "But you…I _want_ you to be happy, Hawke…With me." She saw that the other was about to speak – protest – and silenced her with two fingers. "Listen. Everyone else…it's just sex. It doesn't go any deeper." Another breath. "Sex with Zev would have been great, but not…you. That's why I'm here – now. I…want that other part."

It was a fraction, the other's eyes widening as she slipped her fingers from her lips, "Bela…"

The pirate scoffed, shakily. "It's fantastic, really. You spend your whole life, years of it, being 'fine': getting along and just going through the motions – and then – _bam_. Someone like you comes round and shows a person just how bloody miserable they really are."

"I…suppose misery loves company." The reply was given in jest, yet she could spot the sadness behind it. And the other's anxiety to stray from the topic. "Be better if that's what you feel you need to do – but, I won't have you changing for me. Not when it was never asked for."

Isabela smiled at that stubbornness. "You've always assumed I'm a stronger person than I really am. Even now, I don't know if I can be that person." There was no use in denying it; she'd only be lying to herself: the other woman was far stronger than she ever would be. Never running from her problems, tackling everything – everyone – head-on…Even when it killed her…. "Hawke…I'm willing to try. Give it my all. I want this… _us_."

"So," the rogue smiled back, the feature pure, if not utterly impish, "that's a 'sorry', then?"

Isabela snatched up a pillow and whacked her.

A chuckle. "I mean, you _must_ like me _terribly_. I'd just _hate_ to see you get clingy."

A second time.

Gaile grinned, capturing the pillow with both hands and bringing it and the pirate on top of her with a sharp tug; the pillow was tossed away. "As long as we're clear." A breathy response, the rogue's torso inclining as her auburn orbs darkened with desire.

Isabela felt heat travel to a very _different_ part of her body as her lips crashed into Hawke's, rapidly closing the remaining distance and savoring a sweetness that could only be **_her_**. She pressed insistently into the other's curves – _bruising_ – placing a firm hand behind her head so she could not escape, deepening the earth-shattering kiss. Nipping a lip when it still was not enough, only to gain immediate access with her tongue.

Every part of her body…Toes to fingertips, _trembled_ and _quaked_. The other's touch, hands grasping, _scratching_ against her skin, set each nerve ending ablaze, her mind quickly reduced to a single point focused only on pleasure. All by a single pair of lips. How Hawke did the things she did…It made her want to _scream_. The pirate smirked into the kiss: she no doubt _would_ later.

A need for oxygen made them break apart.

Once even breaths were now needy pants as Isabela instinctively licked her lips. "It's your own damn fault, you know." She scowled…Tried to, at any rate.

The rogue grinned, kissing her again. "Right."

"I _hate_ this."

Another kiss. "I know."

"It's all…so damn…"

Hawke began to nibble a slow trail along her jawline. "Mm-hmm…"

" _Pathetic_." It came as a moan.

"Well…" Hawke's husky voice was at her ear, tongue tracing its curve, "I suppose I'll just have to make up for it with years and years of spectacular morning sex, now won't I?"


	5. Morning

_Heat_ ….

Even while enveloped in the murky haze of sleep, Gaile could feel it; subtle, alien warmth worming its way past the thin barrier of silken sheets, tentatively licking at her bare skin.

A pleasant intruder. **_Radiating_**.

_Body heat…._

A stray thought and her pulse shuddered, mind promptly losing all sense – that it could be _her_ body, _her_ warmth.

_Did she…She wouldn't…_

A breath. Leave it to the pirate to make her lose her composure so very early in the morning.

She hadn't even had her muffin and tea, yet. _Tragic_.

Though, the rogue couldn't help but be amazed. It remained quite the spectacle, the range of her senses even while in a semiconscious state. And, what _did_ one call that delightful place between repose and wakefulness? Somehow mindful of things about you, yet still well within sleep's grasp if it so happened to lull you back in?

Not to say that this wasn't preferable to what normally occurred when she retired to bed, the inky black stillness that came for her, entirely devoid of dreams. The experience…It wasn't unpleasant, really, just…empty. Still. And then, the alternative to _that_ happened to be a nightmare induced frenzy where she woke in a cold sweat. Vicious, jarring clips, tirelessly replaying the more recent deaths in her life. Each **_mistake_** , each **_failure_**.

The ogre.

The Deep Roads.

The blood mage.

Or…

But that was unimportant.

What did matter, now, was the heated **weight** to the right of her.

It had to be Chomp Chomp. Her Mabari was notorious for sneaking into her bed when he thought her unaware; she would often wake to find him curled up to a pillow, despite her constant claims that he stay off.

Or a dragon. Pesky creatures. Sneaking into her bed, and whatnot…So impatient. Apparently, waiting on precarious, Maker-forsaken mountain tops would no longer do.

At least, Gaile hoped it was a dragon. Dragons she could deal with.

Holding her breath as if it would magically render her invisible, a single eyelid cautiously creaked open, only to catch sight of voluptuous brown curves.

_Isabela…._

It all began again, the deep _shudder_ inside; mind _racing_ …Gaile bit the inside of her cheek.

Really. It was like she'd never seen a naked woman who loathed all things commitment in her bed at the break of dawn before.

Last night…It would be best forgotten. Well, not the mind-blowing sex portions of it – those could stay – but more the part where she had confronted Isabela over something so meaningless. She had found herself vexed with the entire Zevran ordeal, yet she did not know why: Isabela was a sexual creature; her propositioning others was nothing new.

And the pirate hadn't **acted** on it.

Maybe it had just been jealousy on her part. She'd…It hadn't been this way before. She'd never been – it was such an _ugly_ word – **_possessive_**.

The rogue never expected the other woman to change. There was no awaited shift in her personality after Isabela confessed, no anticipated grand epiphany, just…Hell, she didn't know. Some sort of…confirmation that the two were truly together now. More than standard rate fuck buddies? Something she could pull out and show to others – convince them.

Convince herself.

But, the pirate had seemed so irritated when she brought up their…whatever they had. And, Gaile couldn't…She didn't want to push her away. Not for this.

Not again.

Why did things have to change at all? She hadn't been asking for more. All she wanted was the pirate near. Within reach. To do that _thing_ she did…That thing no one else _could_ do. But after last night…Maybe the woman had stayed to break things off. Waited until she awakened only to tell her she was just 'too damn needy' now, too demanding.

If that was, in fact, the case, Gaile could…pretend she was still asleep until the other left. Never wake up. Catch a slight case of dead.

It was a solid plan – one the rogue felt proud of…Until the _worst_ itch of her entire existence found its way to her left cheek. The more she ignored it, the worse it became, but if she outright scratched it, Isabela would surely notice and things would be horridly awkward.

Well…more awkward. Awkwarder?

It would be uncomfortable. She still had to think of something to say…That, and get her heart to stop beating so fast….

Throwing caution to the proverbial wind, Gaile sighed and rolled onto her belly, really laying her performance on thick as she smacked her lips sleepily, rubbing her affected cheek against the pillow with a satisfied grin.

_Ahhh…._

Now that that was successfully taken care of, she could move on. A good opening liner…What to say? How to say it?

'Morn'. Potential: short and sweet – to the point. Also, _informative_.

 _Oh_! 'Nice weather we're having…Very…' _Shit_ , she hadn't gone outside yet.

'Hey you…' Coupled with a grin. She could make it _frisky_. And then **sex**. Immediate **sex**.

Before she could mentally place the finishing touches on her master plan, Isabela's fingers suddenly pressed against her back and Gaile could only silently thank the Maker she had not gasped from the unexpected contact. With the Rivaini woman, all it took was a single touch, and her skin was _alive_ …

Several digits – almost reverent – trailed the flesh there; more specifically, a prominent scar. A lovely parting gift from a very deceased Arishok.

The pirate wouldn't admit it, but she knew how much the other hated that particular scar. Isabela's eyes always betrayed her when she happened on it: so angry, so frustrated…Yet, the rogue bore it proudly, this burning decree that she had _survived_. Survived a decision she would _never_ regret. She-

The other's touch suddenly became more insistent, _harsher_ – nails digging into flesh.

"Mmph…" Gaile could not quell the sound, more surprised than anything as her eyes fluttered opened, "Isabela?"

The height of eloquence. And who said she couldn't think on her feet?

The rogue barely caught the other woman's withdrawn hand, meeting her gaze only to have Isabela look away.

"Thought I'd stick around and see what the morning ritual at the Hawke estate was like." The pirate refused to acknowledge her (or that bloody _brilliant_ line), speaking to a window as if trying to convince it what was said did not matter.

"Ah." This was the other's show: Gaile moved to her side, wanting to get a better view. "Not too different from yours, I'm sure; I just happen to be in bed this time." She grinned, even though Isabela could not see; this didn't have to be difficult. It would be their choice. "I usually climb out of whatever ditch I happen to be in, gargle with a bit of ale, spit _away_ from the wind – that's _important_ –" she had learned that lesson very well, thank you, "and then begin to think on how much havoc I can wreak on everyone's plans for the day."

"Even lady man-hands?" Humor had earned her a glance.

" _Especially_ lady man-hands." Aveline was her best friend, one she trusted with her life and more during their many years together, but it was simply too much fun goading the guard captain. And that was just the way she showed her respect and admiration.

Gaile teased because she _loved_.

"Well, then: you have my approval." Her grin grew, not only from the words, but that Isabela now fully turned her way with an inclined brow, a very…promising sign. "You know…" the pirate's voice lowered an octave, "looking as you do now; I might do it more often –" her amber orbs burned with her intentions, making Gaile's body _throb_ in response, "the bed thing. I like this 'just woken up' look. Messy." Isabela's fingers ruffled her hair, sending tingles everywhere she touched. "Like you've just had a good _lay_."

She **shouldn't**.

"A pirate _plundered_ me booty."

She **_did_**.

A familiar smirk touched the other's lips as she chuckled, a smirk that meant only one thing…The rogue did not resist, Isabela fluidly straddling her, _grinding_ against her in the process, leaving her _breathless_ …. "Another go?"

"Only at the risk of sounding desperate…" Gaile adored this – it happened now; the woman on top of her was everything provocative, it was these moments when her body would respond without her ordering it, hands rising to apply a gentle pressure. "Though, before we begin," a more insistent touch and she was rewarded a moan, "I'd like to know why you're really here."

The rogue felt Isabela's entire body tense in her grasp – it expected; the pirate then dove into her exposed neck, lips dragging torturously up, up, _up_ …until they found her ear.

"We've gone over this, haven't we?" _Throaty_ : each word caressed her earlobe, "I was curious to see Kirkwall's Champion before she put on her face." The pirate's supple form pressed into her own, adding to the delicious friction between their two bodies.

"I see." Lies – no matter how _extraordinary_ …. "What now?"

"Apparently, not sex." The woman slid off her body with a sigh, Gaile feeling the detachment as almost a physical thing. "This is silly. I want to leave, and I can't. Because of you." Isabela's eyes rolled, and the rogue's stomach flipped. "Shocking, I know."

Derision; similar incidents had come about before – but it _was_ shocking. Didn't the other know she never really knew where she stood? Every time Gaile heard these sorts of things, they were _savored_.

The rogue decided to tsk, again making light of the situation. Testing these foreign grounds. "What ever shall I do? I've a woman who never wishes to be tied down, but holds no objections, whatsoever, to being tied _up_."

It was the game they played: truths wrapped tightly in jokes. Wondering if the other would acknowledge them.

"The latter's more fun."

A chuckle, birthing only a pregnant pause. The other woman had opened the door, but chose not to explore it. And Gaile waited for additional words that did not come.

"I don't want you uncomfortable." She bit back her – was she disappointed? Isabela had _stayed_ : why could that not be **_enough_**? "If you left now, I wouldn't be upset." Gaile repeated the statement in her head until she convinced herself it was true.

"I _can't_." The pirate chose to glare at the ceiling, but not at her. "Every time I manage the balls to go, all I see is that bloody hurt expression of yours."

Guilt…It kept her here. "I overreacted. You didn't have sex with Zevran. That…" the stumble was frustrating, but the rogue always had to be conscious of saying too much; always, in these discussions, she was her worst enemy, "I know you're trying."

And she _did_. Little things so often overlooked by others as they only saw what they **wanted** to see – and she appreciated the woman's effort.

More than Isabela would know.

"Hawke…I…would." That the other had broken the silence took the rogue by surprise; Gaile did not hide it, letting it lift her brow with unspoken question as she shifted even closer. "Change." The word was so **weighty**. "For you." Isabela's amber depths shook, before completely darting away; Gaile frowned. "With time."

"No." It could not be said fast enough.

The pirate's face scrunched up, as if every line was made to shout her displeasure. "You're damn annoying sometimes, do you know that?"

Gaile blinked. "And I was going for 'charming'…" it somehow stung, her response – but what would it help showing it? Guilt had played enough of a role. "I don't want you to change – that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?"

The other doubted and it was as if they talked in circles: how many times; how many times did it have to be said before the pirate believed? Gaile pushed out a sigh – frustrated, an old habit taking over as a hand weaved through her hair. "Would you change me?"

"Of course I would!" _Huh…._ "I'd pluck that butter heart of yours, to start, and that damned compassion while I was at it. Not to mention the fact that you tend to get involved in everyone's problems when there's no need for it." How interesting that the pirate could make traits everyone else would think venerable, seem like the gravest of sins. "Besides all that, you _snore_."

A welcome distraction.

"Well, it's not as if I would _know_." Her bottom lip was thrust out, playing the jester once more. "And here I thought that would be one of the main things you adored about me. Well…I'm going to have to rethink this entire relationship, aren't I?"

Isabela's laughter…She could not describe it. It was more than a sound, more than a moment – as if hearing everything _good_ about the pirate, all at once. Her _essence_. Making her laugh became addictive, and hearing it meant everything in the world.

The laughter faded away, and Gaile simply observed the woman beside her for a time, witnessing the downturn of those lips and the sudden pensiveness that took Isabela's eyes. What affected her so deeply? Would she share it?

"Bela," The rogue pressed, unable to wait any longer: a light embrace, a gentle kiss – all careful; she did not wish the woman to flutter away, "talk to me…."

Teeth grazed her bottom lip, a telltale sign the other was troubled. "When I left…" she did not have to finish, the words like a blow to the stomach, "How did you handle it?"

How did she _handle_ it?

As if they spoke of a **simple** thing.

"Well, it was mostly sunshine and rainbows. _Oh_ – and this grand parade where all the mages and Templars danced and frolicked about Kirkwall." More feigned indifference, more flippancy – until **_this_** went away. "Shame you missed that."

What did the pirate want to hear? That she literally _threw_ herself into her role as Champion? Relied on a distraction the city provided since she had left? That she'd **_missed_** her?

 **Anger** , and _fear_ , and-

She did **not** wish to _speak_ about it. She did **not** wish to _think_ about it.

The other said nothing, and Gaile was grateful as her body slowly began to uncoil. She couldn't see Isabela's face.

She _wanted_ to.

Releasing her shoulder, the rogue settled into her lap, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. "Why did you leave?"

"Why did _you_ fight the Arishok?"

"I like being the hero." The question took her by surprise, though wit saved her, lips forming her grin…Until Isabela glanced down at her and her expression began to crumble…. "I couldn't let you go."

And, it was not _fair_. Not fair that the other woman could have _her_ secrets, but – just from a look – she could not. Gaile hated the feeling – the other's _power,_ brown orbs meeting the bed's covers with chagrin.

"Why did you leave?"

"It was…too much." The rogue's eyes shot up. "The book, the duel…you." It was painful, the thump in her chest from just the word. "I needed to get away from it all. Step back."

The intent was appreciated, but unnecessary. It was the past. Isabela lay next to her now, in the present; the rogue's thumb was at her lower back, kneading the flesh there, an encouragement to go on.

A sigh. "Do you remember what the Qunari said? That I was 'unworthy'?" Gaile did; she could see the Arishok's massive blades vividly, still hear that condemning tone…. "It shouldn't have meant anything – I _know_ me – but it did. It…I didn't deserve what you did for me all those years back." The slightest pause. "I don't deserve you."

 _There_ – a **_crack_**.

Beautiful…Terrifying….

The admission was too much to take in all at once, and silence, now, would kill her. She _had_ to keep talking.

"What do you deserve?" The rogue was surprised her voice did not break as she shrugged her shoulders, tossing words at the woman, filling the emptiness. "What do any of us?"

"You're a bloody champion, Hawke." The pirate called bullshit. "You deserve whatever good the world gives you."

"And if I want only you?" It was out. Before Gaile could think of the consequences, and what she had just said.

'Good' depended on the person it happened to. 'Good' ended up being a cheap substitution for all the ' **bad** '. She had this so called 'good' the world had to offer: the riches, the renown, the reception – and all it had done was leave her cold.

Isabela had become everything good in her life, everything necessary…

If only she could _see_ it.

It was her own gaze that did not budge this time, a silent stance to see how the pirate would deal with her words.

A clenched jaw.

A trembling lip.

Maker, the other looked almost… ** _embarrassed_**.

Realization hit, and Gaile felt her stomach flip for a second time. That…What she said had been too much, hadn't it? She'd been foolish, and said too much, and now the other woman would surely run away.

She had to think of something to say; to fix this-

"Why?" It was barely a whisper, but more than enough to stub the rising tide of her panic.

Rising, her hand instinctively sought the pirate's cheek, needing that physical connection as well as the emotional.

The time to hide was over.

"Why?" A tender echo.

"Why don't you…You're always just _there_." It came as an accusation.

Did the pirate not believe herself _worth_ waiting for? As if there were no explanation for the way the woman was.

It was one of the things Gaile hated most. Isabela had such a low opinion of herself.

The rogue's gaze fell on the intricately carved wood crowning her bed, recalling all the events that led her here. The blood spilt for her luxury. All the **choices**. "I'd like…something constant in my life. It doesn't…Well, it doesn't seem to want to happen, does it?" A smile – she _needed_ it. If she did not smile, then there was the possibility that the other would take her seriously, witness how desperately true it all was. "So, I thought to myself: maybe, if I can be a constant in someone else's life – in a life that had no constants, either – that could be enough. Even if she didn't want it…" her own little piece of selfishness, "I lose everything, you keep nothing…Seems like it would work."

She continued to smile as if it were all jest. One had to laugh to keep from crying.

"You're…uncomplicated – because you don't allow anything else. I get what I see." It wasn't an insult. She actually envied the trait – that Isabela could _not_ care. That she could just keep _running_. "No expectations."

"And I _should_ like that. The unpredictability of it, not knowing where all this is going – it should give a thrill. But it doesn't. It just… _doesn't_." Her heart was cruel, leaping at the declaration. "It's not enough." The pirate appeared so conflicted, failed words dying on her lips. "It's…no longer enough…"

The spark of hope was quickly snuffed for her own sake. She _wouldn't_ assume.

"What are you saying?" A hesitant step forward.

"I shouldn't _be_ here." Two determined steps back. "I have a _ship_."

"You have me." One day, the other would understand this – its depths.

"You…" it was obvious Isabela was exasperated, but the rogue could not relent – they had come too far; there _had_ to be an end, "It's not that simple."

 _Simple_? "I wasn't meant for an easy life, Isabela. I thought that fairly obvious." The pirate still appeared unconvinced, and suddenly, Gaile's fingers itched; the pads latching on to bronzed skin, delighting in the smooth transition from cheek to hair. "What if it _is_ that simple?"

Just once.

"It isn't. You should want more. I should…"

Isabela could not finish and Gaile found she had had enough. Doubting did not become the pirate.

"Here's the thing:" the rogue gestured to the row of massive windows at the top of the wall, "Kirkwall wants their Champion: their 'Serah Hawke'. Not the long days, not the sleepless nights – that would be in poor taste." Because a person did not matter as long as they filled a role. And that was the thing with being capable, wasn't it? One was either a tyrant or a saint. "You do. Good, bad – you know _me_. I don't need to be anything else."

There was simply a convenience that came with having a person grow _with_ you throughout the years. A merciful need to not explain.

"I just…don't know when everything changed." Neither did she. "Now, I look at you, and something's always there. And if I don't say these things, _show_ them-" the motion was almost crazed, a hand constricting when near her chest, " _that_ happens." Yes. **_That_**. Gaile knew **_that_** well. The sweet contraction when Isabela was near, the paralyzing vice when she was hurt…Brown met amber. " _Dammit_ , Hawke: you've gone and changed it all…"

And there it was again. **Change**. She began to detest the word, it's vaunted expectations. Declaring the pirate not good enough. Declaring what they had now not good enough.

"Isabela." Gaile wanted it to end – the pain in the other's eyes as she tore herself apart. Where they were now was safe. Both _knew_ what the other could give. And both could be spared the disappointment. "It's enough. You don't have to-"

She was cut off.

" _No_ – I need to say this. If I don't…It'll never get said." The other inhaled while she held her breath; Isabela's tone was dangerous, assuring her whatever came next would be irrevocable. "I'm…happy – with you." The breath was released. "More than I should be. But you…I _want_ you to be happy, Hawke…With me." She _was_ happy! Gaile tried to push this, but a pair of fingers were settled on her lips. "Listen. Everyone else…it's just sex. It doesn't go any deeper." What she implied… "Sex with Zev would have been great, but not…you. That's why I'm here – now. I…want that other part."

Something more than physical? _Lov_ \- her head refused to let her complete it.

The term was **_vulgar_**.

Everyone involved in _that_ remained in constant danger. Everyone given _it_ died. It was no exaggeration – it just _was_. If she loved this woman, if she said the word aloud…Well, that would be more than enough, wouldn't it? More than she could bear.

Gaile could not lose her. She **_couldn't_**.

Such a terrible battle, heart warring with mind, "Bela…"

Isabela's scoff quivered with emotion: she appeared just as terrified. "It's fantastic, really. You spend your whole life, years of it, being 'fine': getting along and just going through the motions – and then – _bam_. Someone like you comes round and shows a person just how bloody miserable they really are."

She did it as well. Every time the pirate left, the Miserable would come for her in **_waves_**.

"I…" words were suddenly hard to come by, "suppose misery loves company." Such a wretched truth, not to be dwelled upon. Not when there was a point to still prove. "Be better if that's what you need to do – but, I won't have you changing for me. Not when it was never asked for."

Isabela smiled, it somehow happy and sad. "You've always assumed I'm a stronger person than I really am. Even now, I don't know if I can be that person." Even as the words left her mouth, it felt like a contradiction – the pirate was the strongest woman she knew. How hard it must be to have a conscious with the hand life had dealt her. "Hawke…I'm willing to try. Give it my all. I want this… _us_."

To hear it – made real with speech – _shook_ something inside. And it all, suddenly, became so much _more_ than what fear offered. It a dull ache, surrounded by such _joy_ , that it was no longer relevant.

This is where she stood. Next to her everything.

"So," a smile hid her intentions but little else, "that's a 'sorry', then?"

With a resounding whack, the pillow was at her head before she could even see it, let alone, defend against it. The rogue chuckled, knowing well that she would pay for her quip. But, _Maker's balls_ – their talk had been entirely _too_ serious.

"I mean, you _must_ like me _terribly_." She thought on the other's words, the playfulness of her actions, and it was as if light filled her chest. "I'd just _hate_ to see you get clingy."

The pillow was brought down on her again, but she could not help herself.

Gaile teased because she loved.

Apprehending the pillow, the rogue grinned, coming to a very unanimous decision that Isabela needed to be much closer; a quick jerk, and this was made possible, the pillow, though serving its initial purpose quite well, was now very much expendable.

"As long as we're clear." It rumbled in her throat, a low purr, arousal mounting each inch she rose.

Gaile needed her. **Now**.

Isabela, with her lovely ability to read her mind, plunged, lips colliding with a telling pressure as if the pirate wished to _devour_ her. The combination was almost maddening: an unrelenting touch, a supple body, the rogue delighted when a hand snaked a path behind her head to hold her where she was.

A tug at her lip, and the pirate was admitted. The touch, the feel of Isabela's tongue brushing past her own. Light, to start, but then more forcefully, more urgently – until all she knew was the need of **_her_**. The woman was like a fine ale: one taste and Gaile's entire body would _burn_ , warmth finding the most _wondrous_ places…until settling low in her abdomen with its pleasant glow.

They separated, panting. Her body and its ever demanding need for air – it was entirely too selfish at times.

Gaile's hand strangled the sheets, watching Isabela lick her lips. "It's your own damn fault, you know."

The other's attempt at a scowl simply forced the rogue to kiss it off her lips. "Right."

"I _hate_ this."

Again. "I know."

"It's all…so damn…" _Wonderful._

"Mm-hmm…" Her skin was _delicious_.

" _Pathetic_." The way the word had been _ripped_ from the pirate's lips…

"Well…" Gaile went for an ear, tongue wrapping and curling: compromise, "I suppose I'll just have to make up for it with years and years of spectacular morning sex, now won't I?"


	6. Yellow Eyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be my favorite chapter...

* * *

"Such fond memories…And I do love what they've done with the place. The grime, wailing and overall sense of hopelessness really give it that extra pop." Up and down, two fingers bob against a set of rigid bars; Gaile looks to the standing captive. "Would you like to tell me exactly why you're here or should I simply start to guess?"

Isabela shrugs, an uninvolved flick of the shoulders as she fiddles with a found rock before dragging it against the stone wall in one long, firm stroke. "What's the point?"

"Oh, the difference between two weeks and two months." Her peripherals catch the other's boot shift. "A small matter, I know."

"Not out by the hour? That title of yours _does_ have its limits." The pirate smirks here, as if accomplishing something – and then it's gone, before Gaile could prove it anything more than her imagination. "I suppose we all can't be saved by the 'Champion'."

"No, you've already had your turn, remember?" Isabela turns to her sharply; another glimpse, that thing she could not catch, before darkness claims the other's expression once more: a single candle is all that is awarded each cell at night. "All right: guessing then. Let's see…You were three sheets to the wind and your bottle just so happened to break two windows, twenty five men's jaws, and four innocent merchant stalls?"

"You were there, Hawke."

"I was. Unfortunately, I only came after the unconscious bodies littering the streets. Right when Aveline had to order five of her guards to corner you while she placed you in irons."

The imprisoned woman scoffs. "Dirty trick. I would have outrun them all if one of them hadn't caught hold of my sash." Terse; a verbal assurance of an act Gaile could not see. "Leave it to even the guards of this city to be clingy."

"You can hardly blame them." The two fingers hook, clenching a captured corrugated bar. "You're just so damn good at running away."

"Yes, well, I suppose some people never learn." It was a dead topic picked many times over, the words listlessly recited. "At any rate, I'm apparently not as good as you think I am; I wouldn't be locked up here otherwise. 'Disorderly conduct'." Illuminated fingers emphasize the quotation. "Bollocks."

"Oh, good. I do believe we've reached the part where we stop wasting the other's time and you tell me what really did happen out there."

"The same thing that always happens, Hawke. I was after a few giggles when several stodgy bastards decided they weren't up for playing along. So, I rallied those who weren't utter stick-in-the-muds and had my fun anyhow." Half the pirate is draped in shadow as she reclines against the nearest wall, the visible hand at her side toying with the rock still. "Three years and its all the same." A chuckle that holds none of its usual warmth. "I should have never come back."

"Yet here you are."

"Right back at you, champ." Isabela was suddenly motion, kicking off the surface and moving near: candlelight nestles in the lines of her face, bronze skin intensified by its faint orange glow. "Did captain ball-crusher send the hero down to reform me? Or is this," her body presses against the cell, " _personal_?"

Gaile's lips twist, warring emotions tugging opposite corners. "You think that's why I've come? So you can fuck me through the bars?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I had to diddle a guard to break free."

"I'm no guard."

"Details…" a prisoner loudly jeers, claiming the Champion should talk to him instead; Isabela smiles, "It certainly can't be because you had nothing better to do. Even now, there must be a burning building somewhere with a poor puss or two trapped inside." The pirate reaches out with her free hand, wrist grazing the metal rods as she cups the other's cheek; the Champion tenses. "You're their only hope."

"You know, Isabela – you're so bloody…"

"Say it." She felt the other's jaw clench, the restraint, and her amber eyes narrow. "Say it so you stop making everything so flaming complicated."

Gaile pulls back, realizing the pattern, the same words echoed again and again. "This isn't why I'm here." They were beyond mind games. "Tell me what I want to know or I'll leave."

"You won't. You're like a damned kicked dog."

"The truth, Isabela."

The two women stare at each other, a silent battle of wills as neither breaks eye contact…Isabela gives a tight-lipped smile. "It's a tavern, Hawke. A place to go when you're looking for a good time. You know, that thing you used to be good at?"

"But that's not the real reason."

The rock slips from the pirate's fingers as she turns away.

No. Maybe it wasn't. 

* * *

 

"So." Isabela drew a frayed card from the deck, discarding a useless one to a haphazard pile beside it soon after. "I'm curious. Just how much coin _did_ you pocket now that I'm back?"

Varric grinned, eyes never leaving his cards. "Rivaini, I'm insulted you would ever even think I would wager on something as crucial as your chance arrival in fair Kirkwall."

The pirate's hand slinked under the table, brushing against the material of her sash as she felt the cards there with a smirk; her hand wasn't terrible, but it was always good to know one's options. Luck was a fickle bitch. "Sovereigns, then?"

He finally looked up to her, an easy formality in the slightest variation of his expression, it slacking just so to resemble guilt at being caught. "Two."

"Ooh. Do I get a cut?"

"Of course." Keeping the grin from their banter, he picked a card of his own, making it near impossible to tell if it was actually good or if he was still amused. "You'll understand why I keep it, though: saves us both the time of me winning it back off you."

Isabela snorted. "Typical. Why are all dwarves so tight-assed when it comes to their coin? You'd think it was ingrained in each of you from the womb or something." Another card – one she knew, a nail catching on the slightest scratch before it was added to her hand. "Did the midwife have to flash a silver in front of your mother's taint or did you come out willingly?"

The dwarf laughed. "Hey, you try being a beggar in Orzammar all because your great-great-great grandmother had a thing for casteless nug wranglers, and we'll see how you feel about coin."

"I'll bet you still have money stashed away from that Deep Roads expedition. And it's been _years_ ; if you're the wily, handsome dwarf I know you to be, you've earned even more while I was away."

Varric chuckled, opening his mouth to reply only to be cut off by a sudden wave of laughter and cheers. As soon as the wave had gathered, it had dispersed, crashing back into a dulled murmur.

The dwarf turned in his chair, eyeing the commotion behind him. "Looks like the Champion's still got it." He faced the pirate again, smirking. "I guess the only thing people will shout for louder than my stories is the subject of them."

Isabela's gaze drifted to the scene, the nails of her free hand tapping against their table. The Hanged Man was positively festive despite the sun still being high in the sky, most of the clamor coming from Hightown citizens who wouldn't dare show their faces in the seedy tavern before. All because of Hawke; they continued to gather, like flies above stagnate water, each trying to out buzz the last in a near desperate need for the woman's attention.

 _Pitiful_.

It had barely been two weeks since the pirate set foot in the city and all she would hear was 'Champion' this, 'Champion' that. How wonderful the 'Champion' was, how virtuous. Until all of it became some huge joke she hadn't been let in on.

"Vultures." Isabela reached for her drink, slouching slightly in her chair as she let the amber liquid burn its way down her throat.

"You know, Rivaini, this is pretty standard – even here. Of course, Corff loves the new business." A short pause as Varric downed a bit of his own beer. "There isn't a time when Hawke isn't being mobbed by her many admirers these days. Shit; if anything, it's getting harder to exaggerate their number in stories. No one wants to hear about the Champion being overrun by hundreds of zealots if they just saw it yesterday." It was a meager complaint, one that showed the dwarf actually enjoyed the new challenge; he tossed a card to the pile.

"They're using her." The pirate had easily managed to slip the cards she needed in her hand when the other had turned around: now it became only a matter of time. "When you get right down to it, she's nothing more than a glorified errand girl."

He smiled. "Maybe. But, if I know Hawke, she's using them just as much as they are her. And people always go for those 'hard to win' types: everyone likes to think they're the one that can save the hero." Another cheer filled the tavern, a person offering a toast in the Champion's honor; a request made for the Hanged Man's finest. "While we're on the subject, there's one noble in particular…Esras, I think his name is. Magistrate Breislein's boy before his old man died in the Qunari uprising three years back. Didn't seem to have any trouble taking over the role himself. Looks like he was bred for it." The dwarf waved a hand, shooing away the extra details. "Anyway, he's been very straight with his attentions. Wants to marry her and for everybody to know it."

Isabela's legs crossed underneath the tabletop, securing another card only to lose two in the process. "Sounds like your average snob."

"He's certainly an ambitious little shit, no doubt about that, but his claims are full of holes." Varric glanced up from his hand, "The biggest being that Hawke still cares about you."

"That why she banned sex between us?" She scoffed, amused. "I'd rather she hate me. Hate sex is the absolute _best_." The pirate drained the last of her ale, setting the empty mug in front of her; they had talked in their usual way, neither of them commenting on what was apparent, this one, new rule being the only real shift. "She used to be so eager…It almost makes me wonder what's gotten into her – or who."

"Far as I know, there's been no one else; no one serious, anyway. Of course, there are always rumors, but I don't trust anything that doesn't come from my own mouth. Besides," his grin resurfaced, "it's better if everyone thinks our Champion unattached and heartbroken. I wouldn't be making such a killing off you two otherwise."

"Oh?"

"A new story I whipped up a while back: Rogue Hearts – people eat that double meaning shit up." He indulged his drink once more. "A titillating tale of lust, betrayal, and redemption with just enough scandal to make any woman flush with delight. And men…Well, let's just say, they do something else entirely."

A smile. "I'll bet. In fact-"

Another commotion burbled before fully erupting, swallowing her words with sounds of shock and awe as a Hightowner chirped for the Champion to share her latest escapade at the Wounded Coast – especially the part with the giant spiders. Varric chuckled at his exaggerated creation, Isabela's toes clenched inside her boot.

"Oh, look – it's Norah!" Amber eyes caught the neutral blouse, the tightly wound bun as she guided the barmaid closer. "I might as well pay my respects too, right?" She produced several coins. "Here: three bits. Bring the Champion a jigger of whiskey, on me." The pirate winked. "There'll be a tip in it for you if you _really_ kiss her ass."

It wasn't long – because of its recipient – when Norah made her approach to the two filled tables with a small copper cup; she scooted the many glasses other patrons bought the Champion to make room for it. The bar wench quickly departed with a reverent nod and a quick word – an apology, perhaps, for the poor quality of the container but the pirate betted on her name as well. The nobles' chatter never ceased as Hawke examined the single copper jigger within a throng of polished, filled glasses.

Their eyes connected.

The cup is raised, then tipped in silent salute.

Isabela smirked.

The copper kissed Hawke's lips, the corner of her mouth twitching before she swallowed its contents.

Their gazes collide a second time, before the pirate's shruged away.

The angel of death finally made her appearance and, with a groan from Varric, the game is over.

Isabela revealed her ensured hand, expression growing. "I win."

* * *

 

"This is going to go straight to my ass." Isabela licked at the sweet remains on her fork, placing it back in her mouth only to suck on it slowly. "But it's _so_ worth it."

Merrill quickly swallowed, studying her chocolate slice inquisitively before looking behind herself. "Do you think it would go to mine too? I don't think I'd mind. Everything's so dull back there."

"I think your ass is fine, Merrill." The Champion glanced away from the window of her estate's sitting room to appraise the Dalish.

"Oh…" pink stained her cheeks, "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

Gaile grinned.

Isabela's brow inclined as she pierced her slice. "What? No compliment for me?"

"You, Isabela, are looking refreshingly sober at the moment."

The pirate rolled her eyes. "Smartass…."

"You see, Merrill, asses can be smart too. Chocolate works in mysterious ways."

Merrill giggled before catching sight of her friend's barely touched plate. "Why aren't you eating, Hawke?"

"Hm?" The other woman looked down at her desert as if it just appeared and the elf only worried more. "I don't particularly have the stomach for it. I get so many of these things…It's good to be able to share this one instead of letting it rot like all the others." She chuckled. "I'm sure Bodahn will appreciate one less 'love filled pastry' to toss, and poor Sandal's still recovering from all that pie."

"Is Sandal's stomach bothering him still? I hope he feels better soon…Though, I do think it sweet the people of Kirkwall take the time to make you all these desserts. I don't know what I would do if everyone in the city started baking me things. Well," a slight pause to reconsider, "I don't suppose I'd have the room for it in the first place – even if I did, it would only be encouragement for the rats to linger and I only just got them to leave. They're perfectly nice rats, of course. We just came to an agreement since they're awfully loud scurrying about at-"

Isabela pinched the elf's cheek affectionately. "Take a breath, Kitten."

Merrill colored again. "I'll…just keep eating – sorry. Keep my mouth busy so I won't babble as much."

"Oh, I don't know. If you were to stop being so cute, the sun may very well fall from the sky." The other's cheeks continued to darken, red now touching her ears, and Gaile decided to be somewhat merciful and let her recover; the rogue's hand secured her fork, using it to poke at the decadent slice. "The other night, I wondered if I even tasted food anymore. _Truly_ tasted it. I wondered if I'd become so accustomed to having fine foods – expecting them day-by-day – that I could no longer appreciate their respective flavors."

"It's cake, Hawke. Stuff it in that mouth of yours and love it." The pirate reached over and stole a portion of her chocolate wedge; the Champion's shoulders tensed. "Or I will."

"Well, I don't think it's at all strange to think things like that." The Dalish offered with a smile. "I know when I don't eat, I appreciate the taste of food much more. I…suppose that's nearly every day, though…."

"Have those pesky rats taken off with your bread again?" The rogue's grin returned. "Or was it mere thieves this time?"

"Thieves – but they looked terribly hungry. And desperate. Worse than the cats who follow me home after I go to market; I would have felt dreadful turning them away…Not that I really could have said no, or anything else. They really were in a hurry."

Gaile shook her head, chuckling: the elf was entirely too nice, but it was the best trait about her. "Merrill, you're always welcome here when you're hungry. Bodahn prepares far too much most days and I'd enjoy the company."

"I know, I just…I'm already such a bother. You've done these sorts of things many times over the years, and you've been so good to me." Her green orbs quivered, something more than sadness touching her words. "I only wish I could do something for you in return, Hawke…."

Isabela's empty plate clattered against the dark tile floor. "This is boring." She stretched her arms. "And depressing. Let's go somewhere." She scooted to Merrill, wrapping her arms around the lithe elf and earning a smile. "Do something _fun_."

A knock is suddenly heard, Bodahn entering the room before dipping into a hurried bow. "Messere. I'm awful sorry to bother you while you're with guests…" the dwarf wrung his hands nervously, the severity of the situation told by the many wrinkles gathering on his forehead, "I told him you were busy, but he was very…insistent on seeing you."

"Now you've done it:" Gaile shot an amused look at the pirate, "it's all jinxed now. Not that I can rightly complain; I did get a whole hour left to my own devices." The Champion set her saucer aside, rising up to dust off her finery. "Where is my "insistent" visitor?"

"In the foyer, Serah. From his own claims, what he has to share with you is of the utmost importance."

"Yes…It always is, isn't it?" She made her way to the exit, motioning for the dwarf to tag along.

Isabela clucked her tongue as they faded from view, releasing Merrill while her ears followed the pair of footfalls until they were too faint to be recognized.

"Do you suppose everything's all right?" The sweet Dalish began to fret. "She'd tell us if something were wrong, wouldn't she? Take us along with her?"

"Hawke's a big girl."

The other did not have an answer, lip jutting, as she frowned when her eyes met the abandoned cake slice yet again; it looked so lonely – mutilated, now, from the chunk Isabela had stolen. Ruined. It would never be the same again.

"Merrill." The small elf, snapped from her reverie, looked up, only to see her friend's face still turned toward the opening. "The letter. Did she ever…?"

"No," the younger woman felt shamed saying it aloud, chin tucking in as she glanced to the floor, "I really am sorry – it's all my fault, isn't it? I tried; I did – I swear. I never stopped. But…Hawke wouldn't even look my way when I mentioned it. She'd always change the subject or make me laugh – mostly the laughing – and then it would have been terribly awkward to bring it back up." Her dark brows furrowed. "Before I knew it, she was always leaving and I couldn't stop her."

Isabela faced her, taking the other's hand and squeezing it appreciatively. "It's all right, Kitten. I know you did your best. Hawke's just stubborn, is all."

Merrill nodded. "It's endearing, don't you think? It's one of the things I really like about her. She never gives up on those she cares about."

"Listen," her fingers squeezed again, and the Dalish eyed her curiously, "you and Hawke…"

Gaile barged into the room, hand massaging her wrist. "Well, that turned out exactly as I thought it would. Sorry, you two; I'll have to cut this short." She reached for a rolled document that rested on a nearby table. "I'll just use the normal excuse: saving the day, so on and so on. See yourselves out?"

The Champion left before either answered.

"Hawke's always so busy. It almost makes me tired at times, watching her." Merrill turned back to the pirate. "What did you want to say, Isabela? _Ooh_ – was it something dirty? I missed your dirty jokes…Not that it could have been dirty since it involved me and Hawke. Though, if it were something dirty, I'm sure she would have liked to have heard it as well. Hawke always liked your jokes; I'd really like to see her smile more. Oh, I know she's always grinning, but those are different, aren't they?" The innocent plea in her tone was almost crippling. "You'll make her smile again, won't you Isabela? Now that you're back. You were always so good at it."

"Tell you what," a pat to the head, "I'll think about it, Kitten." The pirate grinned, pulling the elf up with her as she stood to her feet. "Since Hawke ditched us, what do you say we visit that old hat shop in Lowtown? It's still around, isn't it?" Merrill nodded. "Good: a girl can never have too many hats. Come on." 

* * *

 

"Isabela?"

The pirate leaned casually against a building, a briskly parted whisper belying her stance before its female receiver slipped away.

"Hawke." Amber orbs languidly connected.

Gaile visually trailed the somewhat recognizable woman until she disappeared into the dark belly of the alleyway.

"You don't know her."

"Yet I'm certain she knows me from the way she scurried off." Her gaze returned to the Rivaini. "You do know that exchange of yours positively screamed 'why, _yes_ – I _am_ a shady deal', don't you?"

"Some of us still have to make a living." Isabela smirked, and they both know it as a challenge. "Will you turn me in?"

"I'd have to chase you then, wouldn't I? Something tells me you'd just enjoy that." At her knowing stare, the other's expression only became more pronounced. "I'm afraid petty crime doesn't do it for me anymore. Now, if you were an escaped blood mage driven to desperation…."

"Standards, Hawke?" The pirate shifted against the wall, hips cantered to one side. "I didn't have to slice myself up to get your attention before."

"Things change."

The implication is too much, the cord snaps – ignored, and adaptation begins anew.

"So," Isabela crossed her arms, "why are you here? Besides ruining perfectly legitimate business deals."

"Catchy; I could make that my new motto." She raised her hands to illustrate the phrase. "Ruining business deals, one leisurely stroll at a time. Maybe even add in something about running and murder…." The rogue shielded her eyes from the glaring sun, taking in the view to the left of them. "I like the docks. Coming here clears my head."

"The constant bustle of overworked dockworkers and rowdy sailors clears your head?"

"It forces me to stop thinking. The frantic pace…making things simpler." Their eyes met. "A reminder that time never stops."

"That was almost nostalgic." Isabela detached from the wall, her previous position against it so natural, the building seemed less without her; she sauntered forward. "Do you sit on the landings staring dolefully out to sea like an old fishwife?" A straying touch. "Did you think of me?"

Gaile turned. "Before, with that woman;" her feet resumed their course down the main avenue, "what were the two of you talking about?"

The pirate smirked, pursing her. "Business. Man-hands' been cracking down on my girls again; her way of welcoming me back to the city."

"It's Aveline. Seeing as your head's still firmly attached, I'd say you haven't gotten the worst of it." A denizen bowed in passing and the Champion acknowledged them with a nod. "She had some…colorful words when you returned. I'm sure you haven't forgotten how protective that one can be for those she cares for."

"Aww…that's almost sweet. The overbearing mother hen still squawking over her favorite chick."

"And you're the fox."

"There's a shock." Isabela scoffed. "Go on: give me the worst of it. What pole does she have stuck up her ass this time? And don't go telling me it's Donnic's – I wouldn't be in this mess if he were doing his job."

"It's strange, really." A wry grin settled on her lips. "She seems to be under the impression you'll hurt me."

"I will." A shrug. "Doesn't mean we can't have our fun." The other didn't respond and Isabela followed her newly narrowed gaze, landing on a grand memorial that was now in front of them. " _Ohh_ ," her eyes flashed with mirth, chuckling low, "look at _this_ …"

"Isabela."

The pirate whistled as she neared the impressive idol, trailing a hand along its base until halting at a large plaque; Isabela bended for a closer look. "In honor of Abigaile Madison Hawke," she paused to glance up to the one mentioned, lips puckered in a silent 'ooh', "for her boundless courage, undaunted valor – et cetera, et cetera – during the Qunari rebellion. May our new Champion's mighty blades always keep Kirkwall's future bright. And you have tiny flames there as your weapons." Isabela cooed. " _Darling_."

Gaile's entire body was rigid. "Are you done?"

"Oh, be a sport. It's not every day a person gets a statue." The carved curves were surprisingly subtle about the face, the dark stone somehow softer. "Such a beauty…You could have your pick of Kirkwall now." Her fingers began to trace letters of what she read, a nail rising to tap against a single word. "They all stare at you."

"Do you?"

"I stare at your ass."

A flutter of her lips, it amounting to nothing. "Everyone wants something. You happen to be more direct about it." The rogue looked up at her likeness, face betraying nothing. "The people in this city see me as a hero. I see that I was greedy." She glanced back down to the other woman. "What do you see?"

"Something I'm not."

"That's not a bad thing."

"You're reading too much into it." The pirate returned to her full height, moving from the statue to nudge her foot against a series of spindly iron rods behind it; she looked to the boats in the harbor. "Some part of you must love all this. The nobles that used to sneer at you, groveling for your aid on a daily basis."

"A part – it used to be a treat: something for Varric and I to have a laugh over. That was the first year." Kirkwall had been united during the rebuilding, calamity bringing so much talk of change; her naivety was appalling. "A new year. Then another, and you come to find the 'groveling' never ends."

"Stop helping them."

Gaile chuckled: with her, it's always so simple. "I should help you instead?"

"Exactly." Isabela tossed a smirk over her shoulder. "Look: it doesn't matter who you help in the long run; the point is never letting another make choices for you." The pirate fully faced her. "Don't you miss it? Being your own person? Instead, you're saddled with all the city's problems. The one who's always got be doing something important."

"That's right." It's flippant. "Everyone here runs. Everyone here escapes. So many ways to fill the spaces…" her eyes drift away from the thought, only to come back cold, "Anything to forget."

"There are better ways to forget. More gratifying ways." A group of dockworkers who have just finished their shifts pass them, one straightening as he notices his Champion. "Have you…?"

"Once. Didn't work out." She shrugged. "Haven't since."

"You gave it up because of one bad experience?" Isabela tsked. "Hawke, I'm disappointed in you. How's this: now that I'm back, I'll set you up with someone from the Rose. With how long you've gone without, I think a 'hunter horned special' is _definitely_ in order."

"That's so like you." The words leave fondly, even as she shook her head. "Is there anything you can't solve with sex?"

"Not that I know of. It's…Well… _sex_." A wicked smile. "It's just one of those answers to everything. Looking for a good time: sex. Low on coin: sex. Random dead body: sex. Well, maybe not so much with that last one, but you get the idea."

Gaile grinned, but said nothing.

The same group of dockworkers catch the pirate's attention once more, all of them alerted now to their Champion's presence as they stop and stare, some parts longer than others; Isabela's grin becomes a smirk. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?"

"No." Her eyes are on the men. "Not really."

* * *

 

With one last buck of her hips, Isabela rolled off the stranger, back hitting her lumpy mattress with a soft thud as she wiped dark, sweat slicked tendrils from her eyes.

A quaky breath.

A budding smirk.

That…was _good_.

Not the man himself – she won't even remember his name – but the **_sex_**. There was something about it: the frenzied domination, the savage rhythm, the impending release.

How everything afterward was always _clearer_.

A chuckle bubbled inside her, spilling from her lips. Why she hadn't done this sooner….

The man next to her attempted to laugh as well, but it comes more as a rush of air, his breaths still shallow. Isabela rolled her eyes, letting him believe he's the cause of her good spirits, letting it feed his ego. Her partner had been average. More than enough for, say, the bored housewife engaging in her first sordid affair – but he had been an excellent tool for her to take out some pent-up energy. Now that the one thing the man could offer had been done, she had no further use for him.

The pirate shifted her legs to the edge of the bed, back to him as she sat up: a not so subtle hint that it was now time for the man to do the same. This was her room, after all. She grabbed for her tunic while feeling the bed shift.

"You've bedded the Champion, right?" The tunic slipped from her fingers. "Messed around with her back when she was just another Ferelden refugee?" His expression was in his tone: glib; accomplished. "I suppose laying with you is the closest I'll ever get to her, eh?"

Isabela's fingers fidgeted before she turned to him with a smile, shifting close enough to the man that she's able to place a hand on his chest. She leaned forward and he was eager when her lips grew near, brushing along his cheek.

"Want to go again, do you?"

Her nails dug into his flesh as she ascended to his ear. "Get out."

The heat of her whisper delayed his response; it was a few moments before his brows heavily downturn with realization. "What?"

"Out." The hand she had on his chest now shoves him away. "Once more and my blades will say it."

Her daggers were always near and the man flinched when he spotted one, hurriedly scrambling from her bed to gather his clothes. With a "crazy bitch" for good measure, he leaves the very moment his pants are secured.

The room is quiet.

Biting her lip as she eyed the dingy wall, Isabela ran a hand through her uncovered hair before reaching for her headscarf.

She wondered if it was too late to grab a drink with Varric.

* * *

 

The cold steel seemed to part the night air with its swiftness, biting along the pirate's neck…Before realization darkened auburn orbs and the dagger was released, clattering to the ground.

_Good girl._

Isabela was impressed.

Chomp Chomp whined.

The pirate pressed against Gaile's body, backing her further into the ivy-lined wall; she peered into those eyes, dimmed by the brim of her hood, and saw something missing. The spark – the fight had vanished, the orbs nowhere near animated enough for what could have very well been a deadly encounter.

The woman was no longer afraid to die.

Gaile licked her thumb, wiping it across the thin line of blood that began to form at the other's throat; she smirked.

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

Isabela halted the other's reply with a kiss, claiming her lips, pushing into their softness as fingers slipped inside her hood to dance upon the nape of her neck.

Gaile does not respond.

"Oh, come on, Hawke." The pirate retracted, only inches. "For old time's sake."

"You know you're attractive, Isabela. I've never seen you have any trouble securing a warm body for the night." Her voice is colorless. "The Blooming Rose isn't far from here. You have the coin."

"I want you." The Champion's new armor is very tightly constrained, and there is a belt right beneath her breast….

"Because you can't have me."

Isabela smiled as her wandering hand dips lower and even those dead orbs dilate. "You want me."

"Because my body doesn't know any better."

"Your body's the honest one." She moved closer – pressed harder, remembering the soft curves well while feeling her body respond in kind. "Why not listen to it?"

"You left."

"Shit." She chuckled breathily. "You know how to kill a mood."

"Obviously not well enough."

Isabela's eyes suddenly narrowed. "You're not the same, Hawke."

A pause. "I need time to think."

"Thinking is boring." Her lips rested at the corner of Gaile's mouth, the fingers at her neck now teasing the skin beneath her crimson top. "What's there to think about?

"Three years you were gone doing Maker knows what. Now, all I ask for is time, and you can't give even that to me?"

" _I_ _missed you_ …"

Soft, yet primal – _cheating_ ; Gaile gritted her teeth. "Stop this."

Isabela laughed, releasing the woman. "This time." A nail traced her lips, feeling the evidence that she was there. "You're just no fun anymore."

The pirate smirked as she turned away, giving a scratch behind a dour Chomp Chomp's ear before walking off.

A win was a win.

* * *

 

" _Another time, Hawke."_

Isabela's elbow dug into the rough wood of the counter as she thought on the words, raising her mug to her lips to quaff what little remained of its contents. She wasted no time securing a second bottle from behind the bar – ignoring the dirty look Corff made time for even while gossiping with a customer – and promptly poured herself another.

Hawke had been avoiding her; though, the pirate liked to convince herself it had been she who'd done the avoiding first.

By a full day, at _least_.

It was never overt – nothing between them ever was – the woman still stopping by the Hanged Man when there was yet another noble task to complete. Isabela would then refuse her, claiming to have better things to do before quipping she call her pet guard captain to help in her stead. And Hawke would just shrug as if none of it mattered, and she would simply call for an additional drink as if none of it mattered.

Because none of it did.

The Champion didn't need her. Three years without, and a new formation had been assembled, a new squad relied on during her daily adventures; the pirate no longer the one required at her back.

But it didn't matter.

That she had imbibed several drinks now and tiresome thoughts such as these had not all but melted from her mind: _that_ , was the problem. The smell of nightfall accompanied each new visitor like a second skin, the tavern now filled with far more regulars than the paltry handful of Hightowners waiting for the off chance of their Champion's arrival – the noise mindless: already voices slurred bawdy things and laughter bordered on the obnoxious.

And here she was, out of sorts, missing the absolute charm of it all.

Isabela stood to her feet, forgoing the mug and taking a gracious swig of the bottle with a backward tilt of her head before it was pounded against the counter. "Buck up, boys!" She wiped her mouth and smiled, turning to the two tables behind her and knowing all the grinning faces. "Despite your sorry efforts, I'm in the mood to make this a night we won't forget – then drink a bit more until we do." She winked, jostling the nearest chair. "So, up, you lazy lot! Moonlight's burning!"

"Hey, hey!" One of them yelled back, thrusting his foamy mug in the air in salute. "There's nothing wrong with being a lazy sod!"

A brow raised at both the proclamation and the sight of his pronounced gut, the pirate stamping her foot on his seat: directly between the man's privates. "It's certainly not doing you any favors. Though, I do believe congratulations are in order – you should have told us you had a bun in that oven…" a grin, "Or twelve."

Raucous laughter erupted around the table at her sport, and he grumbled good naturally. "All right, all right! Just tell us what you had in mind."

"Well, we're in a tavern, Barden. Chances are drinking's going to be involved. In fact…" Isabela pushed off his chair and he starts as it wobbled before settling back to the floor, "I've a drinking game in mind. A new one I picked up while I was away, guaranteed to knock all of you off your asses." She backed up to an open spot on the table, smoothly propping herself on its lip and crossing a booted leg. "Sound like fun?"

The men whistled and cheered, some pounding their hands and mugs. Yes. Isabela had _certainly_ missed this.

"Barden, you grab a pitcher. Everyone else, mark your mugs. Once you're done, set them on that table there: it'll be better than a square one." The men went to work on carrying out her orders, it all just evocative enough to make her almost feel like a captain again. "And, someone get me a deck! Norah!" The barmaid glanced up to her, chatting up her male customers as usual. "I'll need beers over here, dear! Make it," she does a quick head count, "six to start – then tell Corff to keep them flowing!"

"Oi! I've got that pitcher, Isabela! What now?"

The pirate glanced over her shoulder. "Place it in the middle of the table and you can go back to resting that belly of yours."

The rest of the supplies were gathered in swift order and the octagonal table was prepared.

Isabela slipped off the edge of her makeshift seat, turning to face them. "So, here's the rules!" She grabbed the deck from one of them and slid the cards around the pitcher, each facedown. "And don't worry your pretty little heads over having to think tonight: they're remarkably simple. A person is picked to go first and we go round the table from them. Instead of coin, beers will place your bets – from a sip to a mug, as long as there's an amount, it's fair play. Said bet will be placed in that lovely pitcher there, then you only need pick a card and guess it odd or even. Choose right, and there's no penalties. Choose wrong," she smiled wickedly, dragging the tall container closer, "and you'll have to down the whole of this pitcher. No matter how full it is."

There's a mixture of liveliness and wary mumbles at the prospect, before one of the men stood to his feet. "Sounds like a good time! What are we waiting for?"

"That's the spirit! You'll go first." Snatching up a pint, Isabela downed the amber liquid until it's half full, giving them all a show as she leaned over to distribute the remaining beer into the large pitcher. "There. That'll get us started."

Boldly betting two full cups of beer his first turn, he declared his card even, only to flip it and get odd. A series of groans and jeers accompanied his wrong decision as he was forced to add his drink into the glass pitcher. The last of it chugged down, he pumped his arms up victoriously, challenging the one next to him to do the same.

Isabela smiled to herself – _this_. This was how she was supposed to be spending her nights: seeking cheap thrills, drinking with others who understood her – were just like her. Not thinking of Hawke and things said and done between them.

Not thinking of how everything had _changed_.

Another round, the player criticized for not taking a big enough risk when only a fourth of a cup was sacrificed.

The Hanged Man was the same, from the people who drank there to the dead rat still in the corner. Unchanging. And that made her comfortable. To know that somewhere in this city, her actions did not show their consequences. To know that here, a seat always waited for her.

More cheers: the player who had gone next was also safe from drinking.

Hawke was Kirkwall's. The pirate expected to mold into a new role and smile and nod and act as if none of it mattered – but it did. It shouldn't – she didn't _do_ regrets – and yet it still did.

What made her _matter_? _More_? More than…

"Balls." Isabela tossed the card behind her as if thwarted by its result and no one was sober enough to check it; the pitcher wasn't full, but with her liquid bet, it was close enough. "Take a good look, boys. Here's how it's done." The container was fearlessly taken on, and she relished the utter lapse in thought, the pounding in her ears and the warm buzzing in her head as a drop of amber rolled down her chin.

"What do we have here?" The suave voice was unmistakable, and she looked up to see her favorite dwarf shutting the door to the tavern, infamous grin on his lips. "Don't tell me I missed out on all the action?"

"Varric, you paragon of manliness – you're just in time! I could use some real competition." The buzz she has now was nice but the pirate knew she was nowhere near drunk; her dwarven friend, however, could easily change that. "Think you've the balls to outdrink me?"

He eyed the empty pitcher still in her hand. "I don't think anyone has the balls for that. Doesn't mean I won't try." He claimed a chair, and made himself comfortable at their table, being greeted by the others who still had the ability before gesturing to Norah for a round. "Now I only need to remember if I paid my tab off this month…" his eyes drifted to the left in thought, "Shit; I'll work it out later. What are we playing?"

"It's new. All you have to do is hazard if the card you choose is odd or even and place a bet with your beer. You drink this pitcher," she placed the empty container in front of him, snatching a random drink and refilling a portion of it, "if you happen to guess wrong. You pour your bet in with no consequence if you're right. And just to make this interesting: if I win, I gain unrestricted access to that glorious chest of yours." A lascivious stare. "That means _tongue_ , Varric."

He chuckled as Norah slid a couple of beers in front of him. "Trust me, Rivaini, if you do win, I'm taking you down with me."

"Keep that up, and I'll let you 'take' me wherever you want." She winked at him. "As long as you remember I'm always on top."

"Coming from you, I'd expect nothing less. A full mug." The dwarf reached for the card closest to him and declared it odd, flashing it with no hesitation; the men cheer. "Look at that."

"Beginner's luck."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll still drink a beer." He emptied one mug into the pitcher and polished the other one off himself. "There. One drink closer to a hangover we'll all regret in the morning."

Isabela laughed. "That's the plan."

"Oh – I almost forgot. Guess who I spotted when I walked in?" She eyed him questioningly. "You remember that noble I told you about who has his mind set on Hawke being his wife? Breislein?" He pointed his drink at an immaculately dressed blonde, sampling his wine. "That's him."

"Not bad. Though, I was right about the snob bit." A finger traced the rim of her mug: the noble was remarkably apparent against the shoddy surroundings of the tavern, a piece of Kirkwall invading the one place she could get away. "You know…I think I'll introduce myself."

His brow arched, knowing that tone. "Look – I don't like the guy either, but he's a magistrate. You can't touch him." The pirate was already out her chair, making her way over and he sighed, grabbing for the rest of her beer before leaving his seat as well. "I'm getting too old for this shit."

With each sway of her hips, the pounding in her ears returned, body oscillating with the music of the tavern: instruments and voices alike; the guards around the magistrate's table immediately noticed when she approached.

"Esras, right?" Isabela stepped right in front of the man, ignoring the others. "I hear you have a hard-on for Hawke."

He looked at her like any noble would, always slightly above, even while sitting. "Excuse me?"

" _Hawke_." Reiterated with a smirk. "You want to fuck her."

The noble's jaw twitched and he straightened his collar. "The _Champion,_ and I wish her hand." His blue eyes narrowed, examining her face. "I'm sorry; you are…?"

"I can't blame you." She continued as if he said nothing – because he hadn't. "She's an absolute tiger in bed. _Relentless_. Oh…" a small pause, "You did know she liked women, too?" Their expressions told they didn't, and one of them even coughed and reddened; her smirk grew. "Want a few tips? I'd be willing to share what I know." She apprehended his glass, swirling the red wine. "Free of charge."

"Rivaini," Varric's tone was a warning, "you don't want to do this…."

Esras stared at her incredulously as Isabela depleted his drink in one gulp, casting the glass to the floor. "I can give you all her spots, you know." The back of her hand caressed his cheek. "All the places that make her _wet_ -"

The man caught her wrist, nostrils flaring indignantly. "You _dare_ speak of the Champion as if she were some common whore?"

"And you're – what? Defending her honor?" The pirate scoffed. "Please."

His hold on her tightened. "Do you know who I am, girl? I could have you arrested for speaking to me in this manner, alone."

Isabela chuckled at his threat, stomping hard on Breislein's foot; the man instinctively loosed her hand with a yelp before she punched him. "Well! I feel _much_ better! Anyone else?"

One of his lackeys immediately jumped up and tried to grab her and she dodged it with a laugh, literally kicking his ass and sending him sprawling toward a once occupied table. As he tried to get back up, a bottle was brought across the back of his head and Isabela grinned as one the occupants of the table was granted their revenge.

All it took was a spark.

Another threw a punch and Varric tipped her off as she ducked, Barden holding a third guard from behind as Isabela kneed him in the gut, narrowly missing a flung chair. Such a rousing chorus: the crashing of mugs and glasses, the raucous screams of murder – the sound of flesh against flesh as limbs flew from every direction.

Until it was all a beautiful blur, the pirate no longer knowing who she was hitting as she pissed it all away. 

* * *

 

Gaile watches the illuminated patch of ivory, trailing the flickering cell bars painted across the other's back. "You still haven't answered my question."

"You know why." Isabela's voice is now soft.

"Do I?" More back and forth and the rogue wonders why they can never say things directly. "Humor me, then. Let's imagine I don't and this whole thing comes across as somewhat surprising – what then?"

"You'll just have to accept I'm a worthless scoundrel like everyone else."

"And insult us both?" The rogue shakes her head even if the other can't see it. "A 'worthless scoundrel'. Before that, a 'lying, thieving snake'. You keep saying these things, these endless reminders. When will it be enough, Isabela? Until you convince me?" Her eyes narrow. "Until you convince yourself?"

"We're not the same, Hawke." A reoccurring theme; a jaded tone. "Not anymore."

"We've both done terrible things. I have a title for it." She had killed, stolen, cheated; lied – had even been paid for some of it. "Sometimes, it's sickening: 'Champion', 'Champion'. Sometimes, it's too much. Yet so damn fitting." Gaile steps up to the bars again, grabbing hold of one, marring the shadowy scene. "That's my reminder. Every day, they call me their Champion; every day I remember the lives lost for me to hear it."

The silence between them is deafening, even more so against the shrill outcries of the other prisoners.

Until, "Why didn't you read the letter?"

Gaile grins at the shift. "Self-preservation."

Isabela begins to pace. "You should have read it."

"We're both here: tell me what you wrote now." More silence. "You can't. Just like I can't. We're even."

"No we're not."

"Oh?" The pirate has disappeared into the darkness, the other only knowing her presence by her footfalls. "Why's that?"

"I'm in here and you're not."

" _Why_?"

"Because I'll never belong in that world, Hawke – your world." Their circle of words finally breaks and her pacing stops. "I come back and all of Kirkwall notices you now. Everyone in this damned city wants you for themselves, and I'm nothing more than the person you threw away." She scoffs, but it's too shaky. "Do you know I can't even have sex anymore without hearing about the flaming 'Champion'?"

" _Really_?" Gaile places a hand to her mouth. "I bet you just _hate_ the Champion now. She must think herself so much better than you – not be the same 'Hawke' you knew three years ago? Moved on?"

"Yes, all right! You've gone and figured me all out once again!" The pirate's form suddenly bursts from the darkness, anger no longer restricted to her voice. "There's a rotten part of me that hoped none of it would change. Even when I was the one who left." Her body is a tightly wound coil. "I'm selfish, Hawke; I wish to bloody hell you'd see it."

"You're not selfish. You're scared."

Her amber orbs narrow sharply. "Don't tell me what I am."

"Because everyone else does or because, coming from me, you'd actually believe it?"

" _You_ …" Isabela whips away, groaning her frustration, "I _hate_ this. That you can even _do_ this…"

Gaile is unmoved. "It was horrible, you know. Realizing how much I missed you. That all the memories didn't even come close…" a pause, an emotion she can't describe stealing her words, "It was too real. Having you here all at once…Everything I felt in three years, all in seconds." She lets go of the bar. "I'll have another talk with Aveline; Esras will drop the charges for either me or his pride. After you get out, you can decide what it is you want to do."

The Champion does not linger, turning to leave.

Isabela slumps against the nearest wall, falling to her knees with a curse.


	7. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim"  
> — Frida Kahlo

* * *

 

Bethany exhaled, a cleansing stream of former agitation passing pursed lips as she fell back onto the lush hill, arms spread wide. "I love days like this. When it seems as if you could bump into one of those large clouds up there if you stretched too far…" a rueful sigh, "And here I almost forgot…" her bright eyes took in the white billows above, a smile summoned as the slow giants sailed lazily in their blue sea; she turned to her sister, expression fonder, "Thank you. You always know just what to do to make me feel better."

A medley of greens, yellows, and browns stretched out, endless, before them, the wild tufts of grass that made up Lothering's vast fields swaying with the easy breeze.

Gaile drew another grassy strand from the earth, a small yellow flower accompanying it. "You do know it was more for my benefit than Carver's?" She smiled back, handily splitting the middle of the flower's stem with her nail. "You're downright scary when you shout. You start to spit fire and threaten others with being turned into foul toads…."

The young apostate giggled, swatting the other's knee lazily, "I do not!"

"Do too. Older sisters don't lie, Bets."

"Then you're a terrible older sister."

Gaile gasped, clutching the upper half of her tunic as if mortally wounded. "Daggers! Daggers to my heart!" She grinned, dropping the act as she continued to thread stem and grass into one another. "Go on – name one time I've lied to you."

"If only I brought my list…." Bethany drawled, eyes rolling back to the sky.

"Now you're just being hurtful." A long-suffering sigh. "If I only weren't so terrified of being green and warty…"

Another swat to her knee. "How about that one time I was younger and you told me all of Carver's dirty socks would come alive at night, slinking their way into my bed to eat my toes?"

"Absolute truth." It was managed with a straight face. "Despite Mother's vigilance."

"Or the time you told me that if I kept sucking my thumb, it'd pop 'clean off' one day and run away?"

The older girl held out a hand, thumb tucked neatly beneath her spare fingers. "I am but a survivor, seeking to share my precious wisdom."

"Or the time you told our brother he was born with a bushy, little tail Father had to cut off when he was born and he ran around naked the entire day trying to find the scar?"

Gaile laughed. "A-and he shouted ' _Where's my tail_? _I want my tail_!' the entire time until he was bawling and banging his little fists on the floor!" More chuckles escaped until her stomach hurt. "You…" a quick gasp for air before she laughed again, "You've got me there."

Bethany shook her head, chuckling until she coughed. "You're horrible."

"Eh. The little snot deserved it after the things he'd done – nailing your hair to the headboard, for one." Gaile spotted a telltale wrinkle mar the other's forehead from mentioning the incident. "It just so happens the eldest is allowed to torture rotten little brothers who act like tits. There's an ancient tome on it and everything." She winked, turning her attention back to her work as she weaved another link. "And, if I'm not mistaken, the rules of this merry game of ours was to see how many times I lied to _you_ , not that other one."

"I suppose those first two examples didn't count at all, then?"

"They counted." Another finished link. "I've simply chosen to ignore them, is all."

"Yes. That makes sense." The mage repositioned her arms, hands cushioning the back of her head as she closed her eyes. "You've always been just about perfect at ignoring everyone's rules but your own."

"You say that as if I've been unfair! I'll have you know, it's not lying until you've been caught. That also goes for cheating and the occasional pie napping."

" _Oh_ –" the younger of the two suddenly rose, propped by her elbows to eye her sister accusingly, "I remember you stole that entire pie, once, from poor Mrs. Miriam's windowsill! You were so bad…Of course, you still looked accomplished when you found me in the woods to share. I wouldn't touch it so you ate the entire thing yourself, bare hands and all."

The other groaned. "Paid for that one in full. I was beyond sick afterward, the pie making a rather nasty…reoccurrence by the time we made our way back home."

"It was a cherry pie." Bethany frowned, slender brows rutting. "So it looked as if you were vomiting blood. Mother nearly jumped out of her skin when she caught sight of you, thinking you'd acquired some incurable disease that would leave you dead by the morrow's end."

"I was smacked senseless afterward when you finally told her what I had done." Gaile touched her cheek as if she could still feel the lingering sting before grinning. "I certainly learned a lesson that day. Never eat a pie all at once; it's terribly messy and you don't even get to keep the gooey, deliciousness in the end."

"Oh, Abby…" it came as a disheartened sigh, "You're a hopeless idiot."

"I'm _your_ hopeless idiot." She corrected, carefully setting her finished creation aside as a familiar look crossed her face.

Bethany's eyes immediately narrowed. "Don't you dare."

Her grin widened and she pounced, capturing her sister in a fierce hug as the other squealed in protest when they both hit the ground.

"Hopeless!" The apostate reiterated through giggles, squirming while her sister continued to squeeze and rub their cheeks together.

"To your credit, I'd have no other fret over me and try their best to keep me out of trouble. I just don't know what I'd do without my wonderfully principled sister by my side."

"Little 'ol me stop you from a good time? I'm convinced nothing short of the Maker's divine will could accomplish that." The other's blithe expression remained unchanged and she sighed again at that unapologetic demeanor. "But, I suppose it's not so bad. Though you're never, ever serious," she smiled, " _you always make me_ _laugh_."

Gaile's grin fell. A large cloud eclipsed the afternoon sun, its shadow swallowing her sister whole – obscuring once defined edges of Bethany's form. The darkness then slithered toward her, only halting when it consumed her hands.

All of it: the shadow; the words – she felt unsettled and did not know why. **_Something_** …. Gaile shook her head.

"Here." Her fingers fled the inky veil to obtain the project she'd been working on, only to turn back and see the cloud had passed. "Thought this might cheer you up."

"Abby – it's wonderful!" The mage was quickly roused, marveling at the intricate crown of grass and bright flowers, doting on the simple gift as if it were spun gold. "You're so good at these sorts of things. I love it."

A broad smile. "You're just easy to please, is all. Bend for me; I'll put it on." The other complied and she slipped the ring around her sister's head, seeing it to be a comfortable fit while its yellows contrasted brilliantly against her ebony hair. "There. You're a beautiful princess. There's no castle, status, or wealth to come with the title, mind – and there'll be no 'happily ever after' – but you are beautiful."

"Such a charmer…" a pointer finger grazed one of the soft petals of her crown fondly, "It's why people are consistently drawn to you, I think. I won't swell that head and go on about your looks," she did not miss the other's exaggerated pout, "but you have this way about you…You're…dashing; enigmatic."

"I can also pat my head and rub my belly at the same time. As one would expect, I have to beat the multitude back with a stick."

Bethany chuckled. "Ah, yes: how could I forget that cheeky wit? It's too bad you only use that head of yours for snide remarks and little else."

"But I like my snide remarks…I lay in bed each night thinking them up and you just take them for granted." A smirk. "Besides, I'm 'enigmatic'! That has to count for something. Not all of us can master 'dark and broody' so thoroughly as Carver, but I make do."

She tsked. "You know what I mean. Most only get one side of you – that levity – when you're so much more. You're not as open with others as you are with me."

"Well, I happen to like you, dear Sister. Or did you think me being here and not out gallivanting was for some other reason?"

"It's certainly flattering…But, to the rest, compelling. And you're nowhere near dense – not when you don't wish to be." Bethany cradled a flower between her fingers, petals more golden orange than yellow, before gently plucking it; she raised it to the other's cheek before tucking it behind her ear. "They want to figure you out. See if you're more than your humor."

"Maybe I'm not." Her eyes went astray. "Maybe I don't think them worth it."

"Since we'll no doubt move again because of my…condition?" The frown from her sister was so ready, Bethany could not help a smile. "You're so strong, Abby; I know what you sacrifice for me – what our entire family sacrifices. Why Carver-"

"Because you're worth it, Bets." She apprehended her hand, squeezing it with conviction. "That's what family does: take care of their own. Even that ass of a brother." The other did not look convinced – did not laugh – and her frown deepened, brows knitting together sharply. "You are no less deserving of freedom than I. Than anyone."

"Sometimes I wonder…" the younger girl's gaze drifted away, meeting the ground as if weighed down by the guilt of what was to be said, "I have friends, but are they really? I can never get too close and they can never know me – the real me. I'm always lying to them, hiding myself." Her hesitation became palpable; it was so rare for her to share such worries. "It's just…hard at times; I didn't ask for this. Didn't ask for 'different'. Should I feel this awful longing to be normal like everyone else?"

A vice seized Gaile's chest, a crippling sort of helplessness. "Are you unhappy?"

"It's not about my happiness, is it?" Suspect; a signal to the return of her usual way, that modest persistence. "We all have our burdens in life, and mine could be so much worse. The Circle…I've had far more given to me than other mages. There's so much I don't have to fight for…."

Fingers sharply retracted, nails clawing at the grass, piercing the fleshy dirt as if it were the cause of her sister's misfortune – it the one that made her feel so **_useless_**. "I wish I could take it from you."

"I wouldn't let you." The firmness of her tone proved a direct contrast to her wan expression. "Not this; I wouldn't wish this on anyone. And maybe it's not so terrible that there's at least one thing you can't endure on my behalf; you already take on way more than you should."

"That's only what I want you all to think – life's a dream." Her sister's stare was both soft and disapproving. "You worry too much."

"Your fault, not mine: you've never done a decent enough job of it. Between Mother and I, I'd like to think we manage to pick up your slack. Wishful thinking, I'm sure." Bethany's arms folded across her chest. "Let the rest of Thedas think you're perfect, if it wants; I'll be the one to know better."

"But I am, still, perfect?" Gaile grinned as the other shot her a look. "Not that you don't drive a hard bargain. However will I suffer everyone's delightful assumptions when you refuse to play along?"

"Someone has to get the truth from you. The least I can do is try, no matter how hard you might make it." She sighed, taking in the other's crisp features. "You're so very much like Father – you have his heart. His smile…His defenses. In the way you both could be near, but never close." Her next breath was uneven, raspier. "You hold back as he did, carrying the same lofty obligations he was so loathe to mete out." Her brows seemed to crash with the words, gathering in pain. "He couldn't just…trust us with it."

The vice squeezed anew. "No. He couldn't share everything…That doesn't mean Father loved any of us less." A smile stretched her lips. "He absolutely adored you." The pads of her fingers slipped under the apostate's chin, lifting it – yet something felt off, skin too cool to the touch. "You were his baby girl."

"But you were special. He saw something in you; something you shared, maybe." There was delay, dusky orbs roving as she delved into memories. "With me…it was always in his eyes, a regret to tuck away, as if he were shamed. We had our sessions, but that was a different side altogether. I never had what you two had. That depth." She shook her head, as if already denying the other's unspoken objections. "Though I think I understood even then…Why he was so hard on you, so proud. Father was giving you everything you would need to take care of us as he did. In case the inevitable would happen…Did happen."

"Well, it was certainly considerate. And for the best. He wouldn't want our family in tatters because of his…absence." It was as her sister said before: they all had their burdens. Life would not stall for them. "Father was strong because he had to be – for what he cherished most. It's all surprisingly simple when you think of it that way."

"My knight in shinning armor. Always moving forward." The other smiled in her usual way, happy compromising with sad. "It's nice to know that we have you to depend on, even if, at times, a bit daunting. You were the oldest, I had magic…Is it any wonder Carver felt as left out as he did? He tries so hard to be useful when he shouldn't have to." Their brother was never far from her mind. Maybe it was a twin thing. Maybe Bethany would always be so sweet; she scoffed. "Even now, I'm defending him."

"He went too far." Gaile's tone darkened: their 'darling' brother had left the mage in tears with his unnecessary griping, claiming she was the cause of all their troubles. "He's lucky to have only gotten away with a well placed kick in the shin."

"You two…More alike than you'll ever admit. Both sensitive deep down, caring so much, just with different ways of showing it." She giggled when the other made a face. "I really do think that's why you and Carver get on the way you do."

"Sure. It has nothing at all to do with him being a whiny, inconsiderate, foul-tempered, thick-witted, self-centered-"

Bethany laughed, resuming her playful swats. "Stop that!"

A grin. "I have more."

"You are just the worst." Another chuckle. "I-" a sudden intake of air and a hand clutched her throat – one cough – two, rattling her entire form, leaving her wheezing.

"Bets?" Gaile's eyes widened, horror touching her face, gripping her heart; she forced an exhalation, realizing she had stopped breathing. _Calm down_ … "Bethany – what's wrong?"

"I only…" her voice was hoarse, "need to…" More coughs: harsh, rasping bursts as the mage's hold tightened, digits straining against her neck. The same hand she had squeezed not long ago was now pale, the extremity providing too much of a contrast against her brown skin.

Gaile's mouth was dry. What **_was_** this? It clipped her breaths, hysteria rising in her throat like bile, making her sick to her stomach. An insurmountable dread coming in waves….

"You s-shouldn't…" an irrepressible tremor, lip quivering fiercely until she bit it, "I'll fetch some water, just-"

"No." The word was faint but managed, the coughing fit barely quelled as Bethany tugged the other's sleeve. "It's time, isn't it?" A pallid finger rose to her sister's lips, blue tinting its nailbed. "You're bleeding."

Gaile loosed the puff of flesh, tasting copper even as the slit began to close. "Don't – healing me when…" Realization scratched at her mind, telling her she _knew_ this, even as her pulse raced, "There has to be a way – something I didn't think of, something I missed."

"There isn't. Wasn't." The words hit too hard, uttered with a finality they both knew; fingers softly brushed her cheek. "You did so well…But you couldn't keep saving me all your life. And maybe this is the only way I could ever be free."

"Maker help me…" Gaile gasped, but oxygen refused her lungs, the inexplicable burning in her chest mounting, "You deserved so much better." Her hand weaved through her sister's hair, dark clumps breaking off from the slightest tug.

" _Abby_." A hand caressed Bethany's cheek and dark veins snaked across her face, strangling her limbs as brown orbs clouded over. " _Kill me_ …"

She couldn't scream. Couldn't feel.

"What are you waiting for – a bloody invitation?" The stark audacity is already familiar. "Kill it so we can move on."

Equal parts disgust and tumult compelled a backward glance, auburn eyes catching Carver's face, severe and scowling.

 _Carver_?

"You…" It was barely a whisper, her throat raw; everything, all of her ached. "When did you get here?" Why wasn't he here earlier? Why hadn't he helped?

 _Bethany_ ….

"Let me guess: your idea of a joke? They're all terrible, but that has to be your worst yet." He crossed his arms grouchily. "I've been here all along. And, if you've forgotten, that's," he cocked his head and she turned to see a monstrous beast a fair distance away, their sister missing, "an ogre. We learned about them before Ostagar. Didn't think I'd ever get to face one." His dusky orbs lit as they always did when personal status could be gained. "We're going to slay it."

"Where is she?" A distracted murmur – the other's words were secondary; navigating the haze of her stupor, Gaile held onto the memory even as something…something tried to snatch it away. Flowers…Fears…. "Before anything…We need to find her."

Carver's scowl deepened. "What are you mumbling about? Did you hear a word I just said?" A scoff. "No; of course you didn't. Nothing I have to say could ever be worthy of your glorious consideration."

She felt a trickle of annoyance: always, he was like this, the indignant gnat droning constantly in her ear. "Perhaps if what came out of that mouth were actually useful? Something beyond the grand topic of yourself?"

"Big talk coming from someone whose name is tossed around every waking second; the one everyone comes running to." _Bitter_. "I'm just as talented with a blade as you are – just as capable – but I'm still only good enough to be stuck in your shadow."

"That's right: why not continue to gripe about it at every given opportunity? Surely, you'll come off as the bigger person by complaining about how unfair your life is. Yet another brilliant deduction, Brother." This – what they did – was routine, but it felt wrong. That this was their conversation after what had happened. Why weren't things more urgent? Why couldn't she stop?

"You think you're so damned clever."

"You do make it easy."

He glowered at her, puffing out his chest. "Fine. Stuff your quips. If you won't get off your ass, I'll do it myself; I'll be the one to take the ogre's head." His hand settled on the pommel of the massive sword strapped to his back. "Then I'll bring it back and tell everyone how much of a coward you were."

Gaile wanted to yell at him, to tell him that it was not, and would never be, a bloody contest, but the creature that was once far away was now much closer, roaring and beating its barrel chest with an inhumanly large fist.

"There it is." Carver brandished his weapon, only hatred in his eyes. " _The_ _soulless bastard_."

She doesn't know what he's seeing. Doesn't spot what makes him so furious. Her eyes scanned the darkspawn and caught only the glistening wet streaks trailing from its sunken white eyes, the mangled crown of flowers wrapped around one of its gnarled horns.

The Realization is no longer gentle, slamming into her stomach like a physical blow.

"Bets…" Gaile stayed her brother's hand, missing the black tendrils that spread at her touch, "Carver – that's Bethany!"

It was only a moment: his expression softened at the thought of his twin before twisting back into his horrible scowl. "No…This is all some plot to earn yourself a bigger name than you already have, isn't it? Saying it's Bethany – you're trying to hold me back!"

" _What_?" She couldn't…Her heart was in her ears, raging wildly. Ringing. _Too loud_.

His brow crumpled with cynicism, snatching his arm away. "If I die, I die a hero. Not even you would be able to take that from me." The same hatred that once belonged solely to the ogre was now focused on her. "Maybe you'll even get blamed for something once in your life. Not be so damned perfect."

 _I'm not_. Why wasn't it reaching his ears – why was he still walking away? Was his resentment so deep? Was she not screaming? _I'm not!_

There was no glance back.

Her sister and brother were fighting once more. The events jarring, frenzied clips Gaile couldn't keep up with.

A blink, and her brother charged.

Another, and the ogre smacked his sword away, meaty hand crushing his body.

Her brother's screams.

The blood that…There was so much **_blood_**.

Bethany looked to her, an anguished bellow before attacking.

Her daggers lodged deep in the abomination's chest.

Gaile yielded her blades to the mottled flesh beneath her, fingers trembling from the reds and blacks that coated her hands like a second skin.

Thinking was mercifully impossible.

The thoughts were there, head throbbing with more and more of the rationalizations, but couldn't be processed, each fragment accompanied by too complicated an emotion. But her bloodied hands made this harder. She needed to clean them – needed to…They were too _sticky_ – **_disgusting_** , the dark stains – why wouldn't it come off? Her hands scrubbed vigorously against her leathers. If she could just get it off…She wouldn't have to relive it…. How she… _Everyone_ …

 ** _Murdered_** ….

"Abigaile." Her heart stopped, the wearied voice as much painful as it was paralyzing. "I knew you would come."

Even as Gaile commanded it otherwise, _screamed_ not to look, her body betrayed her, gaze dragging away from her filthy hands. The open fields were now a single, dank room, two corpses littering the dirt ground while a large wooden chair sat in front of her. A sutured arm spilled from its edge, dangling lifelessly.

"Mother…" A choked sob, knees buckling.

"Now, now…You mustn't fret. You'll move past this; you always find your way." The figure's head lurched forward, lolling at a grotesque angle. "Even when your father passed…You were so brave. Never shedding a tear. Taking on all of his duties as if you'd done them since the day you were born."

The scoff was brittle, riddled with emotion, "A fine job I made of it…I…" her voice cracked, stomach quaking with each labored breath, "couldn't save any of you."

"You did your best." A rat scurried across the length of the room. "Tried so hard…Just like you always have. Always will."

"It wasn't enough." Someone had to be held responsible. She was the only one left. " _I_ wasn't enough. Not for Bethany, not for Carver." Unshed tears burned at her eyes. "Not for you."

"Alone, all this time. My beautiful girl…You've been so _strong_."

A strength born of necessity. If there had been a choice… "I never wanted to be strong! Not like this…" her violated mother dying, dead siblings to her left and right, "Not if it takes this."

"I love you."

" _Please_ …" a frantic plea, pitiful and desperate; it was too soon – always too soon, " _Don't leave me_ …"

"You've always made me so _proud_ …"

The body slumped, falling from the chair and landing on the ground with a sick thud. Her mother's glassy eyes bore into her, body basted as if an impatient child's rag doll.

Gaile retched, dry, violent heaves that gave nothing. The anguish was too much, the voice gone but the words lingering – ringing loudly in her ears; misery jabbed from all sides, prickly, hot knives at her heart.

 _Proud_? What was there to be _proud_ of? _This_?

Her mother was the last. The last she had to protect. The last she still failed.

Dead.

Bethany's tainted face.

Carver's mangled form.

Dead. _Dead_.

Was this her shining achievement? _Survival_?

Footsteps made their way into the room – into her thoughts. Heavy and sure, each step seemed purpose filled, passing her hunched form without so much as a pause. Gaile glanced up, breath hitching as she took in the tall form before her; the sharp features, the proud countenance.

"Father…?"

Dried blood caked the left side of the man's face, stained his robes. Three dead bodies: he kneeled, one by one, to each, pausing reverently; grievously.

Cupping Bethany's cheek.

Clutching Carver's hand.

Closing Mother's eyes.

Her father did not speak, focused singly on the tasks set for himself. Only when done regarding them all, did he look to her, dismal expression asking questions that never left his lips.

Why are they dead?

Why didn't you _stop_ this?

I gave you my **_trust_**.

She could not defend herself. Could not say, 'You shouldn't have left.', or 'How could I do this alone?'.

'This wasn't my burden to **_bear_**.'

Over and over, she tried speaking them, the words burning in her chest, clawing at her throat, and dying on her tongue.

 _Those crippling_ _eyes_ …

Her father lifted his heavy gaze, looking once more to the motionless bodies, dismay etched into every line of his face, until, he too stilled, falling to the ground.

* * *

 

Gaile's eyes shot open, torso lunging forward as her chest heaved painfully, the ins and outs of each breath more urgent than her last. Auburn orbs darted frantically, trying to make sense of these new surroundings. Details blurred as she looked for a thing to claim: a writing desk, small circular windows, the warm wood of each wall. All of these were illusive, a taste somewhat known – savored – but forgotten.

 _Panic_.

Where _was_ this? Where was her _family_?

A cloth was laid on her forehead and she flinched, despite the gentle pressure behind it.

"You'll pass out if you keep that up." Isabela murmured, a softer shade. "And not in that warm, tingly way after I've ravaged you for the night." The pirate's hand grazed her cheek before trailing lower, fingers slipping under fabric to rest at the valley between her breasts. "Deep breaths…"

Gaile involuntarily shivered from the chill of her sweat slicked tunic combined with the warmth of the other's hand.

Was _this_ …?

The rogue focused on the contact, the gentle press against her chest, wanting – _needing_ it to pull her from the shadows. But her mind doubted…Everything before had been just as persuasive. She could _feel_ her sister's playful slaps, _see_ the bitterness twist her brother's features, _smell_ the rotting flesh of her mother's stitched limbs. _Sense her father's devastation_ ….

She needed to know that this was _real_.

Gaile attacked. The hand between her breasts was apprehended, fingers tightening against Isabela's wrist as her free hand shoved off the bed. Their bodies crashed – a delicious friction – hot, shocked breaths thrilling her skin as the pirate was forced to stumble backward. Isabela gasped her name and Gaile devoured it, mouth pressed urgently against pliant lips, stealing the other's air as if it were her very essence.

 _More_. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Gaile released her wrist, hand snaking behind the other's head to grab a fistful of uncovered hair, relishing its distinct feel before tugging the pirate's head back. Her tongue trailed the length of Isabela's neck, bronzed skin stretched in offering as she sucked and nipped, feeling the other's pulse throb in response.

 _Yes_. This was what she needed – to feel the other woman's hot flesh _pulsing_ with life energy just beneath. To feel her own _surging_. _Alive._

Back to her mouth. Crazed. Wanting to break the illusion if not real. Another gasp from the pirate, but it's too sharp; the sweet taste of her lips now bitter. Metallic.

Gaile froze, eyes widening with realization.

 _Blood_.

Isabela pulled back, sensing the sudden shift. "Hawke?"

A finger touched her mouth and came back red, the rogue's hand trembling, orbs shifting rapidly. "No…"

The pirate caught her bottom lip, tonguing the new slit. "It's just a scratch. And you happen to be fun when you're feisty." The other woman continued to stare at her hand, haunted, and it both made sense and made her ache at the same time. "You had an awful dream, didn't you?" More than that: from the look of things, it bloody terrified her. Isabela mentally cursed, capturing the shaking appendage and bringing it to her lips, sucking the stained finger clean. "Look at me. What happened?"

Gaile's eyes were damp, flicking away each time she saw amber. "Bethany…" her voice shook, "C-carver," a sharp, pained gasp, "M-my-" a tear rolled down her cheek, quivering lips parting to speak but nothing coming out.

Isabela's chest clenched. Hawke rarely brought up her deceased family - a sleazy uncle and a cousin she barely knew, all she had left.

" _I_ …" the rogue's entire form shook now, as if in effort for continuing on, " _I killed_ …"

A newfound instinct dictated Isabela pull the other closer, the pirate softly stroking her hair.

"You're a damned idiot." Her gentle caress went uninterrupted, despite the words. "I'm no good at this sort of thing and there you go only making it harder." The other tried to stammer out an apology. "Oh, stop it. I do it too. We really do make quite the pair." A sigh. "Not even a week at sea and one of us is already falling apart."

Gaile looked away – mortified: she couldn't depend on her usual defenses, the dream still too vivid, too fresh in her mind, shaking her to her very core. But now she had no place to hide, the pirate captain privy to the worst and best of her at all times. The rogue desperately sniffled in vain, the action only making the tears flow faster.

Isabela's free hand secured her chin, guiding it back. "Look…I don't like this useless feeling. A rather annoying part of me wants to help you, but you have to be willing to show me how." A hand slid from chestnut tresses to cup the side of her face. "I can't change the past, no one can, but…you don't have to go it alone; I'd make a piss poor captain if my first mate didn't think she could share these things with me. And I'm not going anywhere." Her thumb wiped at the wetness lingering in the corners of her eyes. "If anything, you'd be tossed overboard: it's my bloody ship."

Gaile gave a tearful laugh, fragile smile on her lips; she would never cease to be amazed at how the pirate could always pull her from any dark situation with a few choice words. "And you were doing so well…I was almost sure we were about to declare our undying love for the other and go frolic on the main deck."

"Well, your first mistake was thinking pirates 'frolic'. We party. Plunder. Pillage. And all those other wonderful things that start with 'P'."

"Phallus?"

Isabela smirked. "That's my girl."

A moment of hesitation, an entire dialogue involving only their eyes, conveying what words could not...Gaile's shoulders sagged, the sudden release of tensed muscles leaving her weak as she leaned into the pirate's body, melting into those supple curves and resting her head on the other's shoulder. Isabela's arms wrapped around her in turn, hands caressing from her waist up to the small of her back, wrapping a leg around the rogue's to pull her closer. Neither said a word, the simple pleasure of their bodies pressed together, swaying gently, enough.


	8. Ho, Ho, Ho - Fluff, Fluff, Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Christmas' chapter I did for a friend

* * *

"Hawke."

Gaile blissfully ignored the siren call, calling on all of her impressive willpower to remain absolutely motionless and still appear very much asleep.

A sleep that happened to be _wonderful_. Especially on a certain day. A certain day where a certain pirate was always delightfully impatient and the rogue could tease her for…Well, _hours_ really.

And, oh, how she could _fake_ it.

"Hawke…" A lovely purr accompanied by the gentlest nudge.

One she responded to by yawning and lazily turning on her side.

"Oh, stop." A hand pulled her back. "I know you're awake."

Feeling soft, firm thighs straddle her hips, Gaile allowed a grin…Only to make an obnoxious, snoring sound.

Isabela swat her and she opened her eyes, laughing. "Oh good. You're up."

" _Yes_ …" she drawled wryly, "Thanks to a wonderfully abusive captain." The other woman looked down with a pleased smirk, making her own grin grow. "May I ask what you could possibly want so early in the morning?"

The pirate wiggled her hips, a gleeful gleam taking those amber eyes. "Present."

"And here I was hoping you'd say sex." A long-suffering sigh. "Now I'll have to come out and tell you I couldn't afford to get you anything-"

Another slap to her shoulder.

Gaile chuckled. "Would you really complain if I were your present?" Her hands wandered to her hips, inching down the bare skin of her thighs as she brought herself up to meet the other woman's face. "My body." A kiss. "All day." Another. " _Nonstop_ …"

Isabela pulled back with a smirk. "Never, sweet thing. The only thing I'd complain about was how long you made me wait to unwrap you."

The rogue grinned, leaning up a second time to capture those delicious lips, the kiss slow and thorough, long and deep, only to gradually become more and more heated.

The pirate pulled back yet again, managing a pout. "Quit distracting me."

"I'm building _anticipation_." She went in for another kiss, working her mouth against the other's in a practiced rhythm…Until her lover began to whine and she chuckled. "Really, Isabela, why do you enjoy this holiday so much?"

"The presents, silly." It was so fantastically candid, the rogue could not help but laugh. "It's like…free treasure. And, as you may know, pirates do _love_ their treasure."

"If only you knew how hard I'm trying not to make a 'booty' joke right now."

"I appreciate the effort." She gave a quick kiss before looking around the room. "Now where _is_ it?"

Gaile placed a hand on her chin, eyes rolling upwards in mock thought. "Well, it certainly couldn't be in a chest. Under our bed. With a lovingly rendered note saying 'Do not touch. Especially snoopy, gossipy pirate captains. That means you, Isabela.', could it?"

The other woman was a blur, swinging off her body to hurriedly retrieve her large gift before setting it, with a noticeable bounce, on the bed.

"Ooh – a chest! Certainly one I've never seen before!" Her hands slid along its length, fingers bobbing up and down against its leather ridges. "And oh-so _pretty_ …"

She nodded at the other's performance. "You couldn't pick the locks."

"I couldn't pick the locks." Isabela grinned guilty.

Gaile tsked. "That's because I had this chest specially made. Entirely rogue proof; only a set of very specific keys can open those three latches." She tugged at the simple string necklace around her neck, revealing gold, silver, and bronze. "These keys, to be exact."

The pirate gasped. "You clever minx." One of her slender brows rose. "Where'd you get that necklace? With the way I ravish you, I'm sure I would have noticed it before."

"I've had it ever since the chest was made; I just didn't keep it on me until now." She grinned, proud of the accomplishment. "Do you know how difficult it was to hide this from you on your own ship? I had to get the entire crew in on it."

Isabela laughed, deep and rich in a way that made everything in her _shiver_. "I can't believe you turned my own crew against me. At the very least, you should be tied up." She winked. "And then I'll charge you for mutiny."

"You _could_ …" she trailed off enticingly, removing the necklace and dangling it in front of her, "but then you'd never get _this_."

"Oh, you _do_ know how to drive a hard bargain." The pirate quickly snatched the necklace away with a smirk, immediately trying to find which key opened which lock.

Gaile felt her stomach flip as she watched the other work, suddenly and inexplicably nervous.

Doubts came like daggers: what if the present wasn't _good_ enough? What if the other absolutely _hated_ it?

What if it didn't show how very much the pirate **_meant_** to her?

She couldn't use words – not for that – all she had was action. Actions that **had** to be good enough. **Had** to say what she couldn't…Like how she'd buy her an entire fleet of ships if it made her smile. Or give her the ocean if she could only find a way to fit the damn thing in a box.

She wanted to give Isabela the _world_. But even she found that a tad **_dramatic_**.

Maybe just a nation or two…. Start small.

The last latch clicked open.

Gaile held her breath.

"Oh, _Hawke_ …" the lid was pried all the way open and the pirate's features softened considerably, "This is… _glorious_."

The rogue exhaled on the word, breathing in pure relief.

She _liked_ it _._

Isabela's hand lovingly caressed the chest's contents. A lush, red wine from Orlais, a golden brandy the color of her eyes from Antiva, a spiced rum (that the pirate exclaimed, with glee, was only made every ten years) from Rivain, a dry, aged whiskey from Nevarra – and even a bottle of that horrible ale the Hanged Man served back in Kirkwall.

"I-It," _Maker's breath_ ; she cleared her throat, "took me a while, but I managed to find the finest from each country we've visited so far."

"Nothing from Ferelden?" Gaile shot her a look and she smirked. "Oh. Right." The pirate closed the lid, climbing back on the bed and trailing up her body, mouth pressing so insistently against her own that she sighed. "Thank you."

Her heart beat wildly in her chest; the pirate's expression was… _beautiful_.

And that...made her so _happy_.

"I'm glad you like it."

"I _love_ it." She corrected.

Gaile smiled. "Good."

Gazing into her eyes, the need for words faded away, the rogue easily wrapping her arms around her lover's back and bringing her closer as their lips met. Tongue and teeth. _Again_. And _again_ …Until they were both _breathless_.

Isabela pulled away, amber orbs shifting in question as she straddled her once more. "You're not going to ask what I got you?"

She smiled, already missing her warmth. "Is it a sandwich?"

 _Slap_.

Gaile laughed, opening her eyes. "I didn't ask because I thought I was already holding it." The pirate glanced away and her brow wrinkled in that tell tale way that told her she'd said something impossibly charming.

"Your gift." She continued on as if nothing were said; another sign she was embarrassed. "It's a new title aboard the ship."

"Oh?"

"From this day onward, you'll no longer be my first mate. You'll be…" a pause, as if she were tasting the words before releasing them, "my lieutenant."

"A _promotion_?" The rogue grinned. "I knew swabbing your poop deck would pay off someday."

That earned her another swat, but it was one she didn't mind. The other seemed…off. _Agitated_.

"It's more official than 'first mate': it's a full acknowledgement that you're integral to this ship." Isabela chewed her lip. "To its captain. The crew would recognize you as second only to me." Their eyes connected. "And to me…you'd be an equal. If I somehow weren't able to perform…you would man this ship. She would be yours."

"Bela…" The way the other's orbs trembled, how each word carried **weight.** This was…She didn't know _what_ **this** was. But it clipped her breaths, made it feel like her heart was now lodged in her throat.

But Isabela only continued. As if stopping now would ruin it all.

"If you accept, it means you'll swear complete loyalty to this ship. That you'll die with it." Her words were softer now, a vulnerability in those amber eyes that she'd rarely seen. "At my side."

Gaile parted her lips only to have nothing come out, the sheer intensity of this moment stealing her voice.

_Maker…_

_Maker –_ what **_was_** this?

"You have to swear it." The pirate's voice quivered, but it still came as a captain's order.

"I…swear my loyalty to this ship." The declaration was hoarse, her chest tightening almost painfully. "I swear I'll die with it." She felt a trickling warmth roll down her cheek, but no need to wipe it away. "And, when that happens, I swear it'll be at your side."

Isabela smiled, that expression like when she'd thanked her for her present – but somehow _more_. More _beautiful_. "I'm giving you the title because you _earned_ it. I don't want you doubting that." She laughed shakily – defenselessly – rubbing at her eyes before lending her fingers to scoop the wetness away from her own. "I plan to announce it to the crew when they all wake up. And those men adore you, so I'm sure it won't come as a surprise. But it's still rare to see such a cutthroat, slippery bunch take so well to someone who isn't the captain or quartermaster." She scoffed. "It's probably your ass."

"Probably." Gaile agreed, for once, not having anything witty to say. Still… _shaken_.

The rogue stared at the other woman – that constant desire – wanting, needing to give something that would say it all. An indescribable feeling inside whispering that maybe…Maybe she already **_did_**.

And perhaps 'simple' was the best.

"Thank you." She pushed off the bed again, capturing the pirate in a fierce hug, holding what she still thought her very best present. "Captain."


	9. Comfort

Isabela landed on Hawke's large bed with a sigh, crossing her booted legs midair as she made herself comfortable with one of her absolute **_favorite_** reads.

The Champion's diary.

The woman was a clever bastard, and most of it was utter rubbish, but there _were_ slivers of truth every now and again, hidden jewels to be found and exploited.

One need merely look beyond the bullshit.

And she supposed knowing the other as well as she did was worth _something_ ….

The pirate pried the bounded book open, flipping to a random page.

_Dear Diary,_

_I was serenaded today! One of the many nobles vying for my hand paid a few Orlesian minstrels (two sovereigns a head – can you believe it?) to follow me wherever I went while I was out running errands. There's nothing quite like being regaled to embrace someone into your 'magnificent bosom' so as to 'release the aching desire of his fruitful loins' while picking up your underthings._ _Very_ _romantic._

_Hrm…And how does one show gratitude for such a thoughtful gesture? Maybe a fruit basket dedicated to those loins of his? Keep to theme?_

_You know what – I'll think on it._

She chuckled. Another page.

_Dear Diary,_

_Isabela's a damn snoopy pirate. Is she mishandling you even now? Rummaging through your delicate folds without even the slightest hint of foreplay? And who knows_ _where_ _those hands of hers have been? Do try not to be too cross with her: I truly don't believe she can help herself. It's a disease of some sort. Though, I do always wonder what she thinks she'll find…_

_Perhaps, one day, I'll buy something utterly misleading and plant it in my room…Say, an unabridged copy of the Chant signed by her Grace – or perhaps a ring!_

_Now_ _that_ _would be great for a laugh, don't you think, Diary?_

Isabela rolled her eyes.

The woman was a **brat**.

Snooping was _clearly_ a part of her _charm_.

"Well, well…" the pirate tossed a glance over her shoulder, lowering her legs to see Hawke enter the large bedroom with a tired smile, "Bodahn said you were here but this _is_ a pleasant surprise." Auburn eyes flicked to what she held, amused. "Vile pirate – after my secrets yet again?"

"And anything else I can get my hands on." She smirked. "Do you know the going rate these days for embarrassing stories on Kirkwall's 'beloved' Champion?"

"I'm sure I could guess…." Rolls of parchment were carelessly deposited onto her already notoriously cluttered desk. "Were you gentle, at least?"

"Am I ever?"

Gaile chuckled softly, glancing up from the absolute mess of papers only to smile at her again. That same, stupid smile that always made her insides quiver and everything else in her chest feel too tight.

This was the part, Isabela was sure, where she was supposed to say something to properly welcome the other to her estate after a long day of foolishly solving the world's problems.

Something… _warm_.

 _Delightful_.

The pirate abandoned the diary, scooting to the edge of the bed. "You look like shit."

"Do I?" Hawke grinned, a pale shade to what she could normally muster – and _why_ did she notice **_these_** things? "Because I feel like it as well. Nice to see my body's consistent." The other exhaled jadedly, leaning against a wall and massaging her forehead; Isabela felt a frown before she'd even known she'd done it. "This headache's a killer…."

"What happened?" Soft.

"Politics." A sigh. "Always politics…Orsino and Meredith are still at each other's throats. But it's…different, somehow. Worse." A laugh barely there. "I truly didn't think it possible." Slender brows knitted together. "The mages – the templars: I never expected them to frolic, hand in hand, toward the Gallows, but…it's too tense now. All of it tearing apart at the seams…." She caught the slump in the other's form – could suddenly see the absolute… **burden** hidden behind all that humor. How _crippling_ it all was… "I don't…" a heavier tone; her lips parted, "think I can stop it…."

The rogue's eyes closed…slumped body descending the rest of the way to the floor.

"Hawke?" She hated the betrayal of her voice, how her heart beat a pace quicker.

Gaile only chuckled, waving her off. "I'm fine." She peeked an eye open. "Just…a bit tireder than I thought."

Isabela clucked her tongue, rising from the bed. "This city's running you ragged."

"You know," a grin crept into her tone, "the city says the same thing to me about you."

A smirk. "Yes, but I screw you in a good way." Standing before her now, she bent down, capturing the other's hand, only to pull the woman to her, pressing close. "Why must you insist on helping everyone? Haven't you done enough?" _More_ than enough if she were any judge – which she was sure she wasn't – but the point stood regardless. "Every single person in this damned city's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to clean the mess afterward." No fancy title was worth the way Kirkwall treated her. Like a **_tool_**. "We could _leave_." Their eyes locked. "On my ship." Their hips met. " _Tonight_." Their lips brushed. "Sail away from this utter shit storm waiting to happen…."

Hawke kissed her in that **deep** - _infuriating_ - ** _slow_** way of hers, making her toes curl in her boots…before the connection was broken and the other looked away, shamed. "The mages…If Bethany were here…" _sadness_ , the one that never fully went away – that she could never fully _cast_ away; Hawke unwrapped herself from her clutches, turning as she headed towards her bed. "You could always go without me." A soft pause. "I didn't help you acquire a ship only to hold you back, Isabela."

"I'm not leaving." Resolute. The words out before she even had a chance to think of stopping them. "Not without you."

She'd already _done_ that. Tried to leave these pesky emotions behind only to end up right back where she started. Beyond that…Kirkwall would not have the other so easily.

The woman belonged on **_her_** ship. Nowhere else.

A grateful glance back.

Another of _those_ smiles.

Isabela looked away. Not…knowing what to **_do_** with it.

Gaile grinned…before plopping, face first, on the bed.

" _Soft,_ " she dug into the pillow, " _Mm_ …"

"Hawke." No response. "You're still in your armor."

The rogue mumbled into her pillow.

She sighed. "You're unbearable. Here…" Isabela made her way to her, fingers finding their way under leather, tugging on one of her boots.

The other whined, squirming. "Just let me die in _peace_ …"

"They'll be none of that." Another boot pulled away. "How is that body of yours going to recover if you sleep with all these damned layers on?" Her brows furrowed, hands continuing to strip her. "You've always been absolute shit at taking care of yourself."

A flash of auburn, that crooked grin. "That's why I have you." A sudden heat made its way to her cheeks. She would **_smack_** her. "I've done it before, you know – the armor thing. More times than I've cared to count." Hawke no longer looked her way, face hidden within the burgundy pillow once more. "I would just…pass out – I hardly ever made it to this bed. Poor Bodahn would have to drag me to the nearest couch or chair to save me from being on the floor."

A clasp unlatched. "How did you sleep?"

"Terribly." A muffled chuckle. "But that's what alcohol's for."

Guilt tightened her throat, _seized_ her chest:

The nights she hadn't been here….

Isabela flipped the other woman on her back, grasping the hem of her simple shirt and pulling it up her torso. "Lift your arms."

Hawke raised a brow, but otherwise obeyed without a word, the pirate snaking a hand behind to remove the fabric that secured her breasts, more and more of the caramelized skin revealed as the last of her upper vestments were discarded.

Their eyes met.

Isabela leaned forward, the other rising to meet her lips only to have the pirate smoothly evade her intentions and target her forehead instead.

Gaile's eyes widened.

Another flip. The pirate shadowed the body beneath her, tugging her glove off before slipping both hands between her breasts, releasing them to press against the other's naked back and pin her there.

The rogue chuckled. "I don't _not_ like this…"

Isabela smirked. "You goose – I'm giving you a massage." The pirate straddled her hips, kneading the firm skin beneath the pads of her fingertips. "Though, I'm not opposed to the other thing…Even if you don't seem to have the energy for it."

"Bite your tongue!" She laughed; Hawke sighed: the tight muscles she worked immediately relaxed under her touch. "But I would like to know…" she shivered, "the occasion."

"You looked like you could use one." That…She should add more, shouldn't she? "It's also an excuse to have my way with this back of yours." The flat of her palm pressed against a particularly tense spot, rubbing it repeatedly with deep, slow strokes. "You make the most delicious sounds…" her fingers suddenly arched, scratching down the length of her spine, "when I play with it."

"Do…" a gasp, "I…?"

"Mm." She gave in affirmation, pressing her breasts against her as she lowered her lips to the puckered scar there, trailing kisses on either side. "You become _quite_ the _vocalist_ …" the pirate continued to kiss lower, licking the subtle crease that began to disappear the further she went down, "Vocal is good. It means you know what you want."

" _Bela_ …" it was practically a _purr_.

A kiss. "Yes, sweet thing?"

" _Harder_." A shiver of her own – there something about being _told_ what to do, _hearing_ the results soon after…. "Right where you are. _Maker_ …It feels…" she moaned, long and sweet, " _you_ feel…so damn _good_ …"

She pressed her lips to the small of her back, sucking and nipping the sensitive skin before lifting to massage the spot firmly with her thumbs.

" _Yes – there_ …" her body arched, " _Ohhh_ … _Perfect_ …" Gaile breathed, clutching her pillow tightly…until her body went completely slack again.

Isabela smirked. The other did _love_ to put on a show.

And what a show it **_was_** …If the woman hadn't been absolutely spent by the day, she'd have her for the entirety of the night; utterly abuse her back until Hawke was hoarse, **_positively_** _screaming_ her name….

But as it were…

Her hands leisurely rubbed back to where she began, soft, repetitive motions focused around her shoulder blades until she felt the other's breathing start to slow.

" _Oh_ …" she cooed, "Is the mighty 'Champion' falling asleep?"

" _No_ …" Rebellious.

A grin. "You're a sorry liar." She continued to knead her upper back. "And this could be what I had planned all along…."

"You made a plan?" Her voice was low, " _Shit_ …"

The pirate chuckled.

With a surprising burst of strength, Gaile moved to roll over and Isabela let her; the other's fingers brushed her cheek. "Will you stay?"

It was the look in those auburn orbs that made the decision for her.

"Convince me."

Hawke hooked her arms around her neck, both pulling and lifting until their lips met, soft and sweet in a way that knotted her stomach and made her heart feel like the blasted unstable thing it always was when the other was near.

Their lips parted and their was that… _flicker_ in Hawke's eyes – as if she were scared, scared of what she was about to say…The rogue released her, falling back to the pillow once more with shut eyes.

Isabela hesitated. "Hawke…"

 _Shit_.

"Hm?"

"I…" what should she _say_? That she _enjoyed_ this? Enjoyed being there for her – _wanted_ to be there for her? _More_? Was that… ** _normal_**? "Hope you sleep well."

"I will." A gentle murmur. "You're far better at this than Bodahn."

And somehow, in her own, clever way, without saying much of anything, she'd managed to say _everything_.

"Well…" she felt her brows furrow, "Good."

The other smiled her smile, holding her close in a way that made feeling like a stuttering, fumbling fool worth it.


	10. Jezebel

"Where did you get these?" A soft pitch. "What do they mean?"

The question came from nowhere: Isabela traced the bold markings decorating the face of the woman beside her, finger unbidden as Hawke's arm draped decidedly along her hip. They were tangled now. Secure. Pressed close and gloriously _bare_ – an unabashed, unconcerned sort of nakedness–

Because they were _shameless_.

 _Incredibly_ , _gloriously_ **shameless**.

Gaile chuckled, low like rolling thunder, eyes shut as the bed they shared shook with the sweet sound. "Must they mean something? I'm terribly conceited – they could just make me," her brows waggled, "enigmatic." Another peal of mirth, as if taking pleasure in a joke only she knew; her brows lowered. "You've known me for years, Isabela. Why ask now?"

"I didn't care before." Plain. "Answer the question."

If there was any offense taken from her comment, the rogue did not show it. "It's an old warrior's blessing. Chasind." Hawke caught her finger, repositioning it to the center of her forehead. "This is the cause. What a person chooses to fight for." Isabela trailed the shape there, following it across the bridge of her nose, before the digit was shifted to the corner of her eye. "Tears," elaborate lines spilled down her cheeks, "for the fallen. Because there's always a price." Her eyelids clenched. "Always…" The word was repeated – soft; flat – barely there…Until she was guided to the longest curve of the tattoo, a sharp descent, hooking at her jaw. "A blade," a pause, "when all that's left is vengeance." The rogue released her hold, opening her eyes to reveal unreadable auburn depths. "It was before Ostagar. On a dare from my brother."

The pirate stared, not knowing what to say in that particular moment – because, _shit_ , the thick, creeping astonishment was already filling her chest, that all too familiar **_feeling_** lacing her throat from the woman beside her – the utter enigma that was _Hawke_. The sides upon sides; layers upon layers…Because, when it came right down to it, it was far _too_ _easy_ to forget the woman had actually fought a war. _Too_ _easy_ to discount all the terrible things she'd been through.

How damned good she was at **_hiding_** it.

So, Isabela did what she could do – with the woman so close and _truth_ laid stark between them – a familiar of her own as she acted without thinking:

Her forearm was presented, the serpentine emblem there clear against her skin.

"See this brand?" She watched Hawke's eyes devour it, a telling gleam that said she did – _had_ , many times before. "There are a lot of old traditions in Rivain. Markings that do more than look pretty." The tips of her fingers brushed a caramel cheek. "Like yours." A sigh left her lips, it little more than reflex to the topic she was about to bring; the pirate apprehended the other's hand, bringing it to rest on the golden symbol. "When I was married, I had no more worth than the man I was bound to. Long before, where I lived, this," she squeezed the rogue's fingers, "used to be a punishment. A mark of a bad woman: untrustworthy and ill-bred. One no one would ever think to marry if they had any wits about them." She smirked – only because the other chose to frown. "Most didn't get to choose; I did it on purpose. A promise to myself and a warning to everyone else: I would never be tied down like that again."

Hawke was quiet. Not expecting more. Giving careful, reverent touches…Fingers trembling at what was given – as if finding a _precious_ thing…Taking the mark in – eventually meeting her gaze.

A moment, **vivid** and _intense_ …She leaned forward to kiss it.

Her next breath was unstable.

 **_Dammit_** , _Hawke…_

Anyone else would have had questions. Immediate and selfish: anyone else would have _needed_ to press. Taken advantage of her slip, the small reveal she allowed of her past – the _tiny_ , _insignificant_ **_crack_** – and want to breach it further.

But–

 _Gaile_.

She _wasn't_ …

A tightness gripped her chest.

Stepping forward; stepping back – what to hold, what to _give_ : it was **always** her choice – the other always made it **_her_** choice…And she wanted to keep going. Digging.

 _Deeper_.

Beyond gold and giggles….

"This too." The pirate's voice was low, a discernible breath bargaining with deeper emotion; her hand slipped away, a finger tapping the stud beneath her lip. "It just so happens, tattoos aren't the only thing a woman can do to her body to get a point across. Where I'm from, anyway." _That_ place was recalled easily enough – like a bad stench the nose wouldn't forget. "Ah, Llomerryn…" a smile, "What a piece of shit." 

* * *

The sun is unforgiving. Relentless. Making the air equal parts thick and dry – hard to bear, hard to _breathe_ – for those who aren't familiar. Those who are, know it only as second nature. A thing to endure; survive long enough to suffer another day. It is their existence – their **burden**. There is nothing else. So, when a native feels the blinding orb in the sky burning more brightly each moment it remains, their first purpose is always finding _shade_.

Shoeless children zip across dirt paths, making it a game.

Old men, established like dusky pillars, swat lazily at flies.

Everyone else moans.

The market is busy, regardless, filled with every sort of poor and unsavory character – the thief; the swindler; the whore – despite the oppressive heat. Doing nothing yields no coin. And, in Llomerryn, coin is all. 'Remember that' her mother would say, 'there is nothing coin cannot cure. Gain it and little else matters.'

Now, her mother chastises her.

"Keep up, keep up." The words are terse. Impatient; the woman clucks her tongue as she falls behind, but the heat has made her oddly sluggish, thoughts syrupy and slow as she navigates the crowds. "I have too much to do to waste time on your daydreams." Another tsk. "Lift your head. Walk as I taught you."

She quickly straightens; she is the daughter of a 'seer'. Always on display.

And why not? She feels the eyes on her. Hears the low whistles of men as they pass. Her looks are something desired, the angles of adolescence now curves; her mother will use them to get the best price.

"Excuse me!"

The voice is masculine. Sudden, in a way that fuels her mother's irritation and makes her curious; they both turn to see a merchant, middle-aged and Antivan, stepping from behind his stall.

She does not know this man.

She does know the look in his eyes.

Expectant – as if recognizing an item he knows can be _bought_.

He speaks her mother's name sweetly, flattering, honied words dripping from his lips. "I apologize if I appear forward, but your," a smile, "well – she cannot be your daughter – of this, I am certain!"

The irritation lifts from the older woman's face, a fog exposed to sun; she is suddenly delighted. "And, if she were?"

"I would be surprised." He says plainly, brows raising just so that even she almost believes him. "You are the very picture of vitality."

"Why have you stopped us?" An interruption. She generally behaves, plays at demure and docile – but is outspoken still.

Her mother's eyes cut to her. A sternness takes the man's gaze…before his smile appears again.

"Ah. Well: I should introduce myself before we go any further, yes? It is only proper, after all." An exaggerated bow. "My name is Luis. As I am sure you've gleaned, I am a very successful merchant, based, primarily, in Antiva."

"Luis." Her mother echoes the name, sucking it through her teeth – weighing its worth. "A merchant, you said?" She grins toothily, creating more wrinkles along her face. "And so handsome…Is there a wife waiting for you back in Antiva?"

She looks away, feeling the man's gaze, strong, on her – doesn't like it. Her mother is not enough of a distraction, even if believing herself clever as she lists virtues, puffing the man's ego – only to bed him and leave with his coin.

"No…No, I've yet to find a woman…virtuous enough to have a place at my side." Dark eyes continue to feast upon her skin. "Unspoiled and pristine…" his pause is riddled with implication, "A prize to make any man sick with envy."

Her lashes flutter, eyes to the ground – not because she is flustered – but because that is what she has been instructed to do when an influential man parts with a compliment. And she does not want to look at him. "If you had not already claimed being a merchant, I would think you'd stolen one's tongue…."

"I am not known to flatter;" she _feels_ his step closer, "I have merely an eye for _quality_ …" she cannot describe this new look in his eyes; it flicks between something dark and…hungry, "Even if surrounded by filth."

That, she assumes, is a compliment as well – even when that ' **filth'** is her home.

"My lady, if I may be so bold," his attentions find her mother once more, "let us discuss, why I keep you from your errands." The tone of his voice changes, no longer so flattering, as if proposing a deal. "Has a man secured your daughter's hand?" A pointed look. "Is there someone to satisfy her needs?"

The older woman eyes him, up – down…before taking in the well stocked wares behind. "Surely, you can see my girl is no common beauty." Her eyes narrow. "Requests for her hand come like flies: numerous but unwanted." A hand waves through the air, dismissing him. "She does not need charity."

"I do not offer charity – I offer a way out. A future." He gestures to what is around them, their well worn clothes. " _More_." Superiority lifts his chin. "She will be well cared for. She will be a reflection of _me_."

Her mother clucks petulantly; she would like to believe this second rebuke is for a reason beyond being lost as a bargaining tool. But knows better. "She is hardly well behaved: her mouth is often two steps ahead of her head." A shake of her own. "There is too much water in her. You will think you've contained her only to lift your hand and find nothing there."

"I will _tame_ her."

Her blood runs cold.

Her mother says _nothing_.

A confident smile stretches his lips. "She will learn to be proper. To speak only when spoken to."

And it is no different from the _Qun_.

She bites her lip – _hard_ – so the words do not spill out. They speak as if she is not there; over her; around her; above her – but not _to_ her.

He is waved off once more. "So many words – yet you offer nothing. Nothing tangible. Did you think my daughter's hand would come without a price?" A scoff. "She is far more valuable at my side than yours." With this refusal, her mother turns away; she quickly follows, relief washing over her like a curtain, draped like precious shade.

It is not even two breaths before the man stops them.

"Six sovereigns." His voice differs, no longer honied, but thick with insistence. "My finest doe. You can sell her milk until she is too old and partake of her meat after. Surely, a pragmatic woman such as yourself can appreciate this offer…"

But she is secure now. Her mother has turned down the merchant once – she will do so again. She is _useful_. She can fetch a higher _purse_.

She is her **_daughter_**.

Her mother extends her hand.

The sound of each deposited coin is deafening. Its meaning shattering.

 _Clink_. _Clink_. **_Clink_** _._

It hits her in waves…To know that she is not so far from the turnip that lies in a crate to the right of her, a price to be paid once before she is owned.

The sounds stop.

A hand retracts.

Luis steps to her again, eclipsing her. "What is her name?"

Her mother tosses it carelessly – distracted – fingering the coins still.

Smooth fingers, the fingers of the rich, glide beneath her chin.

His lips say her name. His eyes say ' _Mine_ '.

* * *

"Isabela…" slow; the pirate laid on her back, eying the wood ceiling – _not_ – a foot in the present, a foot in the past, "You know," she felt the corner of her lips curl, "that's not my real name."

A beat.

"Hm."

Neutral.

She regarded Hawke fully…Waiting… _Until_ – "That's it?" She may have been pouting. "You don't want to know what it was?"

Gaile shifted toward her, a single brow raised. "I have _pretty_ eyes."

A perfect imitation.

The curl of her mouth returned, blooming a liberal smile; a harmless shove. "You're no fun." The trap had been evaded. She wasn't surprised – the other woman always managed to keep her on her toes.

The rogue shrugged: simply; naturally. "Your name is whatever you answer to."

And _that_ was _that_.

 **That** also wasn't surprising…But it _was_.

It **_was_**.

No matter its frequency….

There was a small piece, a private part of her no one would ever touch; belonging to her and her alone. Just a fragment – **mind** and _soul_ …That fool girl, bearing a different name, waiting, always _waiting_ , for a mother that would never come.

It had nothing to do with 'want'. And it would not change – not even for the woman beside her.

Hawke _respected_ it regardless.

The fact made her only want to share more.

What she _could_.

"That _deal_ …" bitterness claimed the word – a 'deal' for everyone involved **but** her, "My mother 'assured' me what she chose was for my good. That she had only been thinking of my 'future'. That it was my turn to take care of her." The pirate scoffed. "She said each of those things only after she finished counting her coin."

A tentative touch, the other kneading muscle as she worked her way down an arm – the connection _immediate_ , skin against skin as their fingers twined. "You mentioned it before…Your mother. What she did…" hesitation. Her brow creased with uncertainty. "But not like this."

Isabela smirked, gaze back to the ceiling. "Aren't you glad I didn't bog you down with all those pesky details then?"

Her hand stilled. "I'm glad I've done something to make you share them now." Brief – an instant where their eyes met, the statement directing her, persuading her to _see_ it – that **_truth_** – before flitting away; the rogue's ministrations resumed. "I've never thought much of marriage…Even when Mother did constantly." The pause that always accompanied mention of her family. "But, I knew it could be good – it could be _real_ …Because my parents had it." Her voice was hushed; a solemn whisper. "There was nothing more real than the two of them."

A beat.

"Is that…something you wanted?" She felt it, then: the senseless, sticky fear – even when she had an idea on the answer. "That life. Marriage…" a thing she could not give; her eyes made the slow journey back to her. "Children?"

"I have what I want."

It shouldn't have made her heart flutter like it did – that effortless _conviction_ – not for as long as they'd known each other…But her heart paid no mind – did it anyway. "Hawke…"

Now it was the other woman who smiled, before glancing away. "It's too dangerous, isn't it?" Her hand fell from her grasp, rumpling the dark sheets. "Our lives aren't meant for children." Fingers pinched fabric. "And I can't lose anyone else. I _can't_ -" she swallowed thickly – _shakily_ – hand flattening, smoothing the creases. "What I have now…What I've been allowed," an upward glance, "is far more than I deserve."

Those auburn orbs, a mixture of sadness and something _more_ …And suddenly, she _saw_ **_it_** – the rogue voicing her fears, shining light on her own dark places – all to make her feel at ease as she did the same. _Equal_. So, it was no longer just _her_ revelations – _her_ story:

It was **_theirs_**.

Isabela grasped her cheek. "You're happy?"

A definite nod.

"Then it isn't."

Another smile: bright and full and _real_ – the shadows melting from her eyes until there was only light – and, _she_ did **_that_** – as Gaile leaned into her touch.

They both remained silent for several moments, the pirate running her fingers through the other's hair. "I was scared." A murmur, soft. "Terrified…I didn't want to leave. Not with that man." She caught a chestnut curl, twining it – releasing it. "Taken from all you know and just _thrust_ elsewhere…" she shook her head. "I don't know why I'm telling you this…" a hand covered her eyes, as if it would stop her feeling more naked than she already was, "Balls…"

Hawke's hand was sudden – gentle, on top of her own, slowly, patiently, peeling it away. "Maybe, it wants to be said." Another, careful inch. " _Finally_. Maybe it knows there's someone to listen." The rogue laced their fingers once more. "Bela…" a gentle squeeze, "I want to listen…"

Isabela felt herself become undone, the simple words unraveling her: there was no choice when Hawke spoke like that – every bit of her wanted to give in…A measured breath. "I wasn't allowed to take anything with me… 'Rags', he called them. ' _Filth_ '. Unfit for 'his' new wife." Her eyes narrowed. "I was his prized possession; his beauty from Llomerryn – only I wasn't meant to _look_ it. So, he wrapped me in silks and jewels, until I became something else entirely. Until I almost _believed_ …" the tips of her fingers tapped against Hawke's knuckles; agitated, "'Maybe he _saved_ me' – 'maybe this sort of living wouldn't be so terrible'…Stowed in a gilded cage." The pirate felt her nose twist in disgust, nostrils flaring. "It's sickening, how naive I was."

A frown took Gaile's lips, even as she said nothing – _listening_ – thumb moving in tiny circles, soothing the skin it found.

Her fingers relaxed; her tone mellowed; another breath. "Antivan men prefer their women chaste and helpless…If there was one thing I learned from that place, it was how to be _resourceful_." She smirked. "If you can't change your fate, change your attitude. You look at the people who've played a role far longer and learn from them." A hard stare. "Watch and learn to survive."

* * *

There are books.

Varied and innumerable, they cover every inch of wall defining the cramped, narrow space – surrounding her in endless, stacked rows. Beneath each occupied tier of inset bookcases are metal plates, descriptors engraved on what each volume holds.

'A place for everything and everything in its place.' Luis once offered with an air of pride; she had smiled politely.

Eying the impeccable surroundings with which she is so very familiar, she wonders why there is no allotted space for her with shiny, accompanying plaque – a place for her to sit, on constant display, and gather dust until one of the servants get to her.

Then, her husband's guests would not even have to go out of their _way_ …

She shuts the book in her lap with a sigh, fingers securing the delicate, crystal stem of a wine goblet, only to cant its contents toward painted lips…before depositing the glass back on a polished end table. Her eyes take a moment to linger on both items: the highly crafted wood; the stained gold rim – she knows either is worth more than she could ever have hoped to see if she remained in Rivain. Here, she is _provided_ for. Here, she never worries on the likelihood of her next meal…Thoughts like these convince her when written words no longer can.

She pushes the finished novel aside, rising from the leather armchair only to grasp at its puckered arm to steady herself, head swimming from the wine's influence; the bottle her husband so 'graciously' provided has about a fourth left. Feeling pleasantly lightheaded, and warm in all the right places, is a much preferred alternative to pacing the small room anxiously, counting the short number of steps (8) needed to cross from one end to the other. Or feeling as if the windowless walls were very quickly closing in as she struggled to breathe….

 _Now_ , she is loose and calm and _fine_ …Barely realizing just how much she _hates_ being locked in the evening gallery. Barely realizing how being constantly paraded at Luis' fetes is the one thing she despises _more_.

But there are books.

Plenty, she's read. Others, boring or difficult, she's skimmed.

Her favorites are of ships and navigating – of geography and the open seas. Of _Freedom…_ On these subjects, a great deal of information is stored in thick, intimidating tomes that cover everything from ship maintenance to wind direction to _knots_ , outlined in impossibly long lists written in even more impossibly small script – but even _those_ she reads, employing a magnifying glass wherever necessary. She does all this even if only allowed on her husband's vessel a handful of times – and he would **_never_** let a woman man it – but cherishes the thought all the same. Anything to keep those _memories_ : the feel of sun warmed wood beneath her feet, the call of the insistent, salty breeze….

Though, when she is…' _indisposed_ ', thoughts slurring until the words she reads begin to do much the same, she takes advantage of the other thing Luis sees fit to provide:

A _dirty_ book.

Most are utterly ridiculous. _Absurd_. Fantastical tales of love and passion that she cannot stomach sober – there is no connection. These women, so rapt by always powerful, endowed men that ravish them with such an illicit combination of savagery and grace. Whispered sentiments to take the woman's mind right after he has conquered her body. So in love…Yet, where are the books of the woman who stays for _coin_? Where is the novel on the woman whose marriage is _loveless_?

She, however, is certainly not sober, and those sort of questions no longer _matter_ – everything is fair game, and 'maybe' becomes her latest stance on all she takes in. She welcomes the tales of seduction, of intrigue – of carnal nights and tender mornings – imagines being a _part_ of them – rereading the dirtiest, most daring bits over and over until she is sure the flush in her cheeks is no longer solely from drink…

A rap on the door.

"Mistress?" A servant. "Mistress, are you there?"

"Yes…" her response is disinterested, if not a bit annoyed; she is used to the occasional visit from the help to make sure she hasn't done anything drastic, but usually by ones with better timing. "Still here…."

The tumbler of the lock shivers, the knob rattling in turn – and suddenly, she is _focused_ , the door gaining her full attention as she makes hesitant steps forward. It opens, revealing a small, elven woman, blond and blue eyed, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Adelina." She smiles – not just because she swears she can literally _feel_ the new air invading the old, but also because the servant is one she likes greatly. "Has my darling husband ordered you to feed this bothersome creature again?"

The elf returns her smile – but then it's gone – maybe too quickly…maybe not. "The master of the estate has requested your audience in his parlor."

"Has he now?" Slippery words fall from her lips, sliding from her head straight to her mouth – and Luis wanted _this_? He knew her being locked away for hours meant she wasn't in a presentable state; she shrugs. "I don't suppose I have a choice in the matter…."

Adelina shook her head; the words must have come as more a question than a statement.

"All right. Just…" she smooths her dress, "give me a…moment." A hand was at her face, brushing back the stray strands of hair there as she took a deep breath; more so than anything physical was her grasp on mental: she needed to be in the right state of mind; docile and obedient. "All right." Repeated; the elf steps aside to let her go first as they walk down a hallway.

They travel in silence down the familiar path as she tries to sharpen the glowing streams of orange that come from the lit candles hung along the wall.

"Well, you're quiet!" She laughs – because it's true and that's worth a chuckle or two – realizing too late that she might be too loud.

Adelina shushes her, looking extraordinarily nervous once again. "Mistress, please…"

They turn. "'Mistress'?" A scoff. "You usually don't…" she trails, but, in truth, it doesn't really matter – the thought is gone. "Luis. Did he say what he wanted?"

A pause; a second turn. "No."

She bites her lip, because she can't help but feel as though she's missing something, her instincts telling her she should ask the elf something else, but her mind not responding.

Before long, they're at the start of another long corridor, her husband's parlor at its end.

"I…" the other woman covers her mouth, brows furrowing.

Her eyes roam to her lazily. "What?"

Adelina shakes her head.

She shrugs, looking away from the elf to focus, again, on the door that lies before them, gaining more and more definition with each step…And then, a hand is on her shoulder stopping her.

"Look, I don't want to go either, but-"

"Here," something is pressed into her hand, "drink this."

She is too loose to question it further – it could be more alcohol given the person handing it to her, and that is _always_ welcome in these situations; taking the vial she depletes it. The liquid is smooth, having no taste she can readily identify, but somehow she knows it isn't water.

Adelina checks the vial the moment its lowered, making sure it's empty – nodding – nervous jerks of the head as she does not meet her eye. "It…" a hitch in her words, "It will deaden the senses."

She says nothing more, leading her, now – as if she cannot be rid of her fast enough – until they are at her husband's parlor door and she is opening it for her.

"Ah," Luis eyes her expectantly, that small, pleased smile on his lips, as if he is about to lick them, "there you are." He shoos Adelina away dismissively before gesturing to the other end of the room. "I have a few guests who are interested in meeting you."

She takes a confident step forward, because this is nothing new – the constant parading – and makes her way to the four men, dipping in a proper curtsey, making sure to provide diffident smiles for each, before returning to her husband's side.

One of them loosens the cravat around his neck, nodding appreciatively. "Well, she's filled out nicely, hasn't she?" He leers shamelessly. "Guess your little investment paid off…"

"Yes…" she feels the familiar knots of aversion in her stomach from their words; ignores them, "I've brought you here for a reason, dear." He steps from beside her, a finger finding its way beneath her chin before glancing away. "It just so happens my guests are in dire need of a bit of…entertainment. It occurred, my doting wife, could be the perfect solution."

It is only a moment – the fog in her mind clearing enough until what she hears is a bit too real.

"I d-don't understand…" she feels sick with unease.

Another of his friends barks with laughter. "You taught her Antivan?" He grins cruelly. "And here I thought Rivaini women could only learn one thing!"

Luis raises a hand, turning back to her. "There is nothing _to_ understand; I have been asked for sufficient entertainment; _you_ are what I provide."

"That–" her mind feels even more sluggish than before, not being able to process both the words and all four men now approaching her, "You can't… _possibly_ …"

Her husband shushes her like Adelina did – like when he feels she is being too **_dramatic_** , a tight grip on her arm as he tosses her forward, into the arms of the man that laughed at her before. She tries to escape – _quick_ – but the hold around her is already unyielding and she cannot break free.

She screams.

He laughs.

The room spins and she can see each of the men's expressions – _ugly_ , **_twisted_** things on their lips – until she is forced in an unknown direction. A step backward and she is no longer standing, falling unto a chaise, instead, a form hovering over her before she is flipped over.

She feels her arm start to loose feeling.

Luis merely _watches_.

Fingers tear at the ties along her back.

She prays the rest of her numbs faster.

"Hold her down."

Hot breath against her ear; nails dig into her, holding her firmly where she is. The sleeve of her dress is ripped down her shoulder. A tongue drags down the exposed skin. Another tongue along her neck. The skirt of her dress is thrust upward-

* * *

"Hawke…?" She had to stop. The woman beside her was shaking.

"I'm sorry – I-" her voice shook dangerously, "I _know_ …" the rogue's mouth quivered with broken, unsaid things; she looked away, "Shit…" a fist slammed against the mattress. **_Again_**. " _Shit_!"

Isabela rolled on her side, snatching her chin, free hand covering the trembling fist – keeping it there. "Don't." She forced the other woman to look her in the eye. "Don't you _dare_." Hawke's eyes were red, darting every which way – _needing_ something to blame – to **_punish_**. "Don't you _dare_ blame yourself for what happened then. We didn't even _know_ each other."

The words were harsh, but necessary. Because she _knew_ Hawke. Knew the woman, even with no possible way of knowing – no possible way of _stopping_ it – would still feel **_guilt_**.

Because that was just the selfless sort of person she _was_.

But she already carried those memories, carried that **weight** – didn't need another to share the load with her, saw no need to _add to it_ ; another damned drop in an already full bucket….

"I didn't tell you about that to have you defend me."

 _Instant_ – the way Hawke's expression utterly _crumbled_ , anger ebbing to become a sad, regretful thing.

And there was a moment where the woman simply looked as if she did not know what to **_do_**.

The pirate loosed her grip, fingers moving to find her face:

She'd been careless. Foolish to think the woman next to her wouldn't be affected – that she'd _share_ her level of detachment…And maybe it _would_ have been better to have warned her, warned of all the bad to come. Then, after, she could have told her to re-imagine those things – but ten times _worse_.

Not even considered a person. Regarded more like a cheap wine, fit only to be passed and shared.

Hawke stared silently at the sheets – _deliberating_ – clenching and unclenching her hand as a wave rocked them gently…She finally met her eyes. "What…" **_heavy_** , "what else?" Tiny, curved welts littered her palm. " _After_ …" she had no more to give.

Isabela sighed. "He ordered a few servants to 'clean me up' before having me brought to his chambers. Then, it was 'his turn'." She watched the rogue's nails forcefully dig into her palm. "And I laid there. While he did what he did, until he was satisfied. And I never was. A girl who barely knew her own parts…" a glance elsewhere, "No hope; no trust; no innocence."

She could hear her voice losing color, the images in her head now, merely a series of events:

One

Two

Three

They had happened. They were _over_.

"You know…" a thin smile, "there were times when I just wanted to end it all. Kill myself when he locked me in his "evening galley" for days at a time – at least it would be _my_ choice…only to hate myself when I couldn't." She chuckled brittlely – because there **_it_** was again, that _want_ to tell Hawke silly, extra things that shouldn't have mattered. "Such a stupid girl…Shut away, afraid even to speak. Wondering why she wanted to live so damned much…."

It wasn't her next breath before Gaile's lips were against hers – soft, but unrelenting – as if trying to kiss her words away; their mouths parted inches, breaths mingling. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Hawke." There was no need for pity. She would not _accept_ it.

"No…" their lips brushed, "But it doesn't seem like anyone's said it." It was given in her usual way, as if she could not help being the **good** that she was. "Someone should say it…" the rogue kissed her again – and it's too _quick_ , " _I_ wanted to say it…"

Isabela captured her lips, insistent on tasting her – _urgent_ , the other having no choice against her tongue as she pressed closer, taking _as much as she could_ …before pulling away, panting.

Sometimes, the other woman was just too _brilliant_.

And she didn't want to _stop_. Almost relieved, in some strange way: the dulled pains presented, there – but always **_fading_**. Because, with every glance, every word, every minute press closer, Hawke was tearing it away – the walls, the anger, the _fears_ – taking every bit of it and placing it upon herself. Taking it all until she was forced to see what was left.

The brilliance of _them_.

"So." A recovering breath – another; the rogue grinned. "Always on top?"

Their eyes locked.

"Always on top." Gaile's expression softened, a smile that said she _knew_ and nothing more need be said on the matter. "I told you about Zevran, didn't I? His hand in all this?"

"If I recall, Zevran had his hand in quite a few things that day…"

Isabela laughed. " _Ooh_ ," she traced the slight turn of her lips, "still jealous, pet?"

"Tragically." That decisive arm found its place along her hip once more. "If we could skim over the parts on how very proficient and _bendy_ he is…"

A smirk. "Oh, fine…You big baby." Hawke grinned smugly. "He _came_ ," a wicked glance, "not too long after my husband's…'request'; did us all a favor and lodged a dagger deep in the back of his skull." The pirate hummed with satisfaction. "He'd been so confused, too…I'll never forget the look of sheer panic on his face right before it happened…" her eyes closed – _seeing_ it – the memory as clear as it had ever been; her expression grew. "Do you know, Zev apologized after? Said something along the lines of it being 'unfortunate to have to do such ugly things in front of so beautiful a woman'." She shook her head, opening her eyes. "I don't think I ever laughed so hard in my life…Then I kicked the lifeless bastard and spat on him for good measure."

The woman next to her smirked wordlessly, but those auburn orbs told the pirate everything she needed to know: Hawke was just as pleased the pestilent bastard was dead and there was a good chance she'd turn her ship around if it just so happened he wasn't.

She didn't need anyone to defend her…but the thought made her _tingle_ all the same. "Zevran passed along everything he knew about the job to me – a 'courtesy', he said – though I'm fairly sure he knew by then I'd lose no sleep at night." The pirate chuckled. "Regardless, he told me about my husband and his dealings with the Felicisima Armada. Back then, I'd heard of them, but knew little enough; Luis, however, did business with them from time to time – and by 'business', I mean he paid their 'sail tax' to ensure his cargo would make it to wherever it was headed, safely. But, apparently, my darling husband got a bit too greedy and crossed someone he shouldn't have." She grinned. "Those people hired a Crow."

Gaile's brow rose, clearly amused. "Now, why am I not surprised you joined the 'illustrious' organization that made your husband a mark?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't the only reason," a sinful curve soon took her lips, "but it _was_ a damned good one." They traded grins. "And, while Zevran may have been the one to introduce me to the idea of the Armada – _that_ wasn't the best thing he did." Isabela spotted the wrinkle forming on the other's brow, swatting her gently. "Oh, stop. I won't go into details, but…that night, I discovered _it_. _Sex_. What it was _supposed_ to feel like, that it could be _fun_. _Give so much_ _pleasure_ …" her toes curled at the thought, "And it was _mine_. My decision to open my legs to whomever I chose – to get what _I_ wanted – and not give a damn about anyone else. The _power_ that held…" she shivered: there was _nothing_ like it – to be completely and utterly **_invincible_** … "I wasn't going to let Luis or those men take that from me."

Hawke's next breath was audible – _raw_ – the woman biting her lip as the grip on her hip _tightened_ , those brown orbs suddenly unreadable. **Dark** …. Everything hidden – except _hunger_.

Isabela felt her body respond so acutely, it rendered her _breathless_ –

The rogue wanted to **_take_** her…but was resisting the urge.

And she _understood. Hearing_ the other's conclusion without words – _seeing_ her resolve:

Nothing was more important to her than _this_.

The pirate leaned in to kiss her – giving something they _both_ needed; short enough not to break any promises, long enough to convey something _deeper_ …She broke away with a sigh, licking her lips for that last taste. "Antivan men liked their women chaste and helpless;" _again_ , "I became anything _but_. Taking my husband's ship, joining the Felicisima Armada – until I was the immoral woman in all their worst tales." She chuckled, husky and low. "Lips that dripped honey, a mouth smoother than oil…But in the end, bitter as wormwood and sharp as a double edged blade." The tips of her fingers began to draw along the canvas of Gaile's skin, small, meaningless patterns. "Whore, _slattern_ –" a snort, "I'd been called it all – not once did it matter. Because I knew what I had and I knew what I could _get_ for it. I _embraced_ it…With both arms open and both eyes closed." She could already hear her voice becoming distant, memories scratching at the surface, "Some people don't want to be saved. Some people prefer ignorance…And then, it becomes a bit like walking in darkness…" twin brows dipped severely, "They have no idea why they continue to stumble." 

* * *

An arc of lightening knifes through the blue-black sky, illuminating everything, in one, resplendent moment.

Bouts of thunder rumble threateningly – exploding without warning, loud, vicious cracks, like those of a whip.

She loves _every second_.

"Brace!" Her voice delivers the command sharply, bellow stronger than the rain that pounds the deck – the roar of the wind whipping her hair about wildly; the Siren's Call bobs against tumultuous waters. "Best keep a hand to something, boys!" She smirks, spotting another large swell swiftly approaching. "Lest you're fond of a dip in the drink!"

Her girl hits it head on, riding the colossal wave like a champ – even as another surges forward to slam violently against her hull.

She laughs, turning to the crew that remains above deck. "Secure those drums! Anselmo – Celso – if you both think you're done soiling yourselves, take in that sail! Those winds get any worse, and I want her at bare poles!" The two men grunt their affirmation, running off to perform their given task; she spins on her heel. "The rest of you – we've everything on top and nothing handy! I want this deck cleared!"

Multiple calls of 'captain' meet her ears before an array of subordinate orders get barked behind her, a hectic, glorious chorus of scattered voices intermediately drowned out by the elements.

She makes her way toward the bow, effortlessly weaving past the darting forms of her crew before taking a step up, gaining an unobstructed view of their dreary surroundings – her ship plowing through rampant waters – carving her way toward oblivion.

Another brazen flash of lightening.

Another deafening roll of thunder.

Wind and rain blow harshly against her, but she feels no chill.

She spreads her arms, eyes closing with a deep, shuddering breath:

 _Gorgeous_.

 _Absolutely_ ; **_breathtakingly_** _–_

The euphoria leaves her dizzy.

Sailing in a storm, _completely_ at the mercy of the sea…She knows no feeling _like_ it. Riding agitated waves, weathering relentless winds–

 _Surviving_ …At all costs.

The thought strays too close: to slaves; to her decision; to her **_regret_** – and she starts to hear _screaming_ – before the storm _rips_ it from her, her ship pitched by a fit of turbulence.

"Are we adrift, Captain?" The question comes soon after, and she recognizes its owner as her first mate. "I'd come up to see how the men were faring, to find her stripped."

She opens her eyes; Anselmo and Celso must have dropped the last sail. "Thought I'd give the old girl back to the sea. Storm like this, you've got to head a bit off course to keep where you're going." Her arms drop to their respective sides. "We're forging along, aren't we? And I happen to be enjoying the show…" she turns to eye him, smirking, "What's your concern?"

"None from me, but you should know not everyone's happy about it." He shrugs. "Crew's not a crew less they're complaining."

She laughs. "If I wanted to be handed a line, I would have asked someone else…" her smirk grows, "I've never known you to hold back, Casavir – no need to start now." A gesture summoning him forward. "Speak your mind."

The man steps up to join her. "Brand passed along how some of the crew wanted you to go off on another tack earlier. That they're threatening mutiny…Several are of the mind you sailed right into this storm when it could've been avoided." A pause, his countenance darkening. "I'll be frank, Captain: the lot of them seem to think you're going on without both oars in the water. With that nasty piece of business with those elves…" he glanced at her, gauging, "They're starting to think you've gone soft. That you've got some kind of death wish."

Her face betrays nothing. "And you?"

A small grin tugs his lips. "I think half the bastards on this ship are too scared of you to make their opinion known one way or the other." He scoffs. "And, what _about_ me? I'm your first; your ship, your rules, far as I see it."

It's words like those that let her know she was right to trust her instincts when choosing the man's position; she clucks her tongue, starting to pace. "Those men…They hear a few scary noises, feel a few bumps here and there, and they're like rats deserting a sinking ship. Useless unless they've got a drink in their hand." An exasperated sigh. "Does _no one_ appreciate a good storm, anymore?"

Casavir whistles low, taking a step toward the railing. "She's a beauty, sure…Only seen a few others like her – less, of captains willing to brave 'em. And here's you, not batting an eye." He chuckles. "I've met my share of crazy leading the life I have – but you?" A look is cast over his shoulder, "You're a kind all your own."

She stops. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"That why you took those slaves? 'Venturing'?" Her eyes cut to him. "I've seen my share of cutthroats and coin chasers – and while I've watched you enjoy your share of the spoils well enough, those aren't the things that keep you going. Not fully." He turns from the surging, murky depths, facing her. "So, here's a question, Captain, 'fore we go any further: what do you want out of this life?" Only curiosity tinges his tone. "Why are you here?"

"Freedom." _Immediate_ – the word never far from her tongue. "If you don't know how important that is, you haven't found it yet. Dead or alive; you're free if you have the power to choose." Her brows furrow. "You saw those elves – chained like _animals_ – never given a proper choice in their lives – and look where they ended up." She looks away, feeling the anger well up inside her – the **_disgust_**. "They're all dead."

"Tossin' 'em in the sea by twos…" a deep frown mars the man's expression, "Still shackled so they had no chance of making it…" he shook his head, "I'm not saying you're not fit – I said I'm with you and I meant it – but that sort of thing does something to a person. And I saw how you looked that day, Captain." She didn't meet his eye. "What we did, left its mark…"

Her teeth clench. "Those people," she snorts; they weren't people anymore – not at that point, "those _slaves,_ were dead regardless. Whether they drowned in the sea or were forced into a life of servitude, they were _dead_." _Again_ – as if spitting those words over and over would somehow make it _right_. "They were dead, and the Orlesians were gaining and I did what I _had_ to." Their eyes lock fiercely. "I wasn't going to die like some _dog_ – not for them, not for _anyone_."

They hadn't even put up a _struggle_. The sheer number of elves packed in those holds could have overpowered them easily – gained control of the situation and fought to the very last – yet they did **_nothing_**. Only _stared_ and _waited_ for the choices to be made for them.

What in that was _worth_ _saving_? Slaves that didn't even _know_ how to be _free_?

So, why had she _tried_?

A crash of thunder pierces the silence between them.

Casavir crosses his arms, exhaling. "Not a person on this ship holds that decision against you. Like you said, you were doing what you had to given the situation…" a ridge in his brow only adds to the hard lines of his face, "But just because we escaped, doesn't mean regrets won't follow."

"It was a _job_."

"You don't believe that."

She _didn't_ …Even when it would make everything _easier_. "What I believe is life isn't fair – you play the hand you're dealt and you play it the best you can." Her eyes find the ocean, seeing their faces still – pushing them toward the darkness. "Me or them…" because those are _always_ her options. "I had the better hand."

Acceptable or not, the man only nods.

It is a moment…before the _shift_ – she whips back around, clapping her hands. "Check to see if the deck's been cleared; any essentials left, I want them strapped and weighed down."

"Aye, Captain."

He leaves and she smirks – spreading her arms, closing her eyes.

She breathes.

 _Me or them._  

* * *

Gaile's arms were around her, hugging her tightly from behind. "You're so beautiful…"

The action – the _words_ – set off an intolerable chain reaction of chest clenching and throat tightening – because, _of course_ , the other would say the thing so far from what she expected, the thing she anticipated _least_ , so reverently…it made her _ache_ ; she managed a weak roll of her eyes – glad Hawke couldn't see her, glad she turned away when she did – needing to dampen the feeling. "Shouldn't you be looking at my face when you say that?"

"I don't have to…" breathed against her skin, the rogue's lips brushing the crook of her neck, "It's that strong." A searing kiss. " _You're_ so _strong_ , Isabela…"

And she was _helpless_ against it: the **_thick_** _heat_ coursing throughout her body, pooling in her cheeks – simmering beneath flushed skin. Because it was _more_ than a line, desperate for her affections – sappy, desperate lines did nothing _for_ her – but Hawke was her exception, always saying these things with such undiluted **_passion_** …that even if she could not bring herself to believe them–

In Hawke's world, it was _true_.

And that was enough. If she was called a whore; a murderer – _worthless_ , a thousand times over, but this single person thought her beautiful…

It was _enough_.

Isabela swallowed thickly, testing her first words mutely until positive they wouldn't break. "There's a story…an old tale, of the Sun and the Sea. Everyone loved the Sun: it was kind and warm – it gave light to the darkness. And shined on everyone. But, many hated the Sea – cold and dark – causing only death and misfortune, while providing waters no man could drink. Useless. But the Sun admired the Sea – told her she was beautiful." She felt the other's quiet, steady breathing. "The Sea didn't believe the Sun's words: it whipped and crashed in anger, from, what had to be, deceit – because the Wind carried the dissent of the people, and she knew no one thought such things…But the Sun was patient and asked her to calm, shining on her brightly until she did. 'Look', the Sun said, 'look how you glisten, your waters like diamonds…You are beautiful. As I said.' Though only a murmur, now, the Sea disagreed, 'It is only your influence that makes me that way. I am only beautiful because you have shined on me.' The Sun smiled, even brighter than before. 'My dear Sea,' it proclaimed gently, 'my light can only reveal what is already there.'"

The pirate felt the other's lips shift in a familiar way, the light brush of teeth against her as she was pulled in closer; she did not need to look to know when the other was smiling.

Isabela closed her eyes…Remembering the first time she heard the tale – remembering the man who told it to her.

The only other who thought her beautiful.

She finally turned, a slow shift in the other's arms, "…One more story." 

* * *

She sighs contently, strolling the coastline as her feet dip deliciously into wet sand, humming with pleasure each time an ambitious wave laps at her ankles.

The sun bathes her skin.

The water sneaks between her toes.

And it's _perfect_ ….

"Mm…" a low rumble of approval, "Right there…" the rich, masculine tone finds her ears, stealing her from the moment, "Beautiful."

She turns to see its owner a few feet behind her – beaming, his hands raised to an eye, framing her with his fingers.

A smirk; she'd almost forgotten about him.

 _Almost_ …

Her hand slips to the back of her head, unraveling the knot of her scarf – letting the fabric fall into her grasp – the breeze rippling its new plaything…before letting it go.

She watches the man's pose drop instantly, not moving an inch as he scrambles to secure the windswept fabric, limbs darting wildly until he is successful.

"Ha!" He grins triumphantly.

"I knew you'd catch it." Matter-of-fact – as if nothing could be more boring. "You're…dependable, I suppose. Good in a pinch."

"Do not forget practical." He holds the scarf out in display, moving closer. "What a lovely gift this will make for the next girl to warm my bed…" she kicks water at him and he chuckles. "Ah. I suppose I'll have to keep it then." The man fingers the fabric, eying its subtle intricacies. "'Dependable' …" a crease in his brow, "Is that so terrible?"

There's something new to his voice, a certain cheerlessness she does not like. "Not if that's what you're looking for – consistency and routine…" a smirk curls her lips, "But wouldn't you much rather have unpredictable?" Her feet resume their trek, carelessly splashing a wave. " _Exciting_?"

"I'd like to think a person can have both. Excitement and stability."

"I've had stability." She casts a glance behind her shoulder. "It's overrated." Another sigh escapes her lips, the wind tousling her hair. "Life's messy; you can't expect to experience the gloriousness of it all locked away in someone else's arms."

Several moments of silence pass between them and she has to consciously – _repeatedly_ – stop herself from looking back at the man again.

There is only the sound of wet footsteps following her, until– "You really do love the sea, don't you?"

The change in subject is welcome.

"I'm being obvious again, aren't I?" And she cannot help smiling, hearing him chuckle again. "She just so happens to be one of those rare things in life that expects nary a thing in return…You can't get that from people." With people, there was only _give_ or _take_ ; she turns her focus back to the persistent swells of the ocean, their crashes against the sand. "That, and I respect the untamable. You can ride her buxom waves, weather her storms, but you can never _own_ her." She bends down, dipping a hand in the rushing water, foam swirling about her fingers. "Of course, there are always men willing to try…Only to meet a quick and gruesome death." A smile. "It's one of those lovely little morals I can appreciate."

"You make the sea sound so fearsome…" the thud of his steps suddenly disappear. "Should I be afraid?"

She finally allows herself to look his way. "Of me or her?"

The man's blue eyes shine with amusement, only reminding her of the thing she adores. "Either."

Her fingers play in the water once more, the curve of her smile now wicked. "Not if you know your place."

"Beneath you?" Their eyes catch. "You see, that's clever, though not so appealing when dealing with the sea." She laughs, standing to her feet. "With you, however," a mere step, and he is in front of her, "I'd never complain." His free hand captures her wet one, bringing their bodies closer. "I don't want to own you."

"Oh?" She studies him intently, caught between something wary and strange. "What do you want?"

His smile is beautiful. "You care?"

She scoffs. "Maybe I trust you won't be melodramatic." The smallest pause. "And I'm…curious." The small admittance feels like a surrender.

The twin pools of his eyes soften in a way that renders her useless. "You are what I want." It is both expected yet completely unanticipated. "And, if I am allowed to be selfish," a strong arm slides around her waist, "the chance to make you happy…"

" _Why_?"

"Because the world's not as bad as you think."

The statement – the _moment_ – catches her unaware, finding all the cracks and crevices it _shouldn't_ …

She smirks – because it's all she _has_. "You haven't been to Antiva."

The corner of his lips twitch – and it's that _sadness_ again, the one she can't _stand_ – as if she is made of glass and he can see right _through her_. "Why do you do that?"

His gaze is _unbearable_ – she can no longer meet it. "What?"

"Sabotage yourself." The words pierce as easily as any dagger. "As if you cannot wait for the bad to happen…" fingers delicately trail her cheek. "As if you must bring it yourself if it does not come on its own?"

"Survival." She shrugs, a careless flick of the shoulders. "There isn't anything else to it." Her eyes narrow at the sand. "Nothing good ever happened to me sitting around waiting for it. So, I make my own luck – good, bad, or otherwise."

"And now?" The question is as soft and firm as his touch. "You've _survived_ – we both have…Long enough to find _this_." He shifts closer, conquering the space between them – and, even without walls, she feels cornered. "You only need stop running…"

"I don't know how to do that." Frustration strains her voice.

He releases his hold, securing her hand again, pressing the scarf there. "Then stay with me until you can."

She closes her fingers around it, holds it on its end – and something is off, the fabric…heavier than it should be.

A knot that was not there.

It unravels easily, revealing a gold band.

Her heart **stops**.

She's _paralyzed_.

"Marry me."

The words hang like a death sentence.

The ring a prison.

 _Panic_.

She doesn't know how to _do_ this. She doesn't know how to **_be_** this.

Not if it's different from what she knew.

Why hadn't he _listened_?

Now…

 _Now_ –

A choked sob. "You fool." She eyes the small weight plaintively…before it falls from her hand. "You've ruined it now. Gone and ruined it all."

"Isabela…"

She shakes her head – feels herself backing away. And he looks so torn, so utterly  _heartbroken_ …she can hardly breathe.

But if she stays, the pain will be so much _worse_.

" _Please_ …"

She turns away. 

* * *

"And I ran."

Silence.

Isabela looked to Gaile – trying to gauge her – taking what she could from a tenuous expression. The woman's face seemed to deny all absolutes, neither happy nor sad – but even then…a touch of both…. _Pensive_.

All for a faceless man.

She never mentioned his name.

But, Hawke was smart. It wouldn't surprise her if she'd noticed.

The pirate gave up on the other's expression, rolling onto her back – eying the ceiling, talking to it instead. "He put such stupid thoughts in my head, useless little thoughts…" she chuckled mirthlessly, "Like how I could have married a good man. That, maybe, they all weren't like _him_. And, why didn't I know I had that _choice_?" More silence – but she hadn't _expected_ an answer. "So, I ran." A sigh. "Before he could prove me wrong."

"How did you know?" Soft…shattering the silence.

"I felt the danger of it. Of him. The way he loomed closer, tugging all the old aches…Until I barely recognized it anymore." Her gaze fell from the ceiling. "That I was sharing that pain."

It was an odd she could not readily identify, remembering that man now when she hadn't thought of him in years. Like accidentally stumbling upon lost treasure; a piece of her heart she showed no one, a regret she hadn't told anyone…

Isabela felt the mattress shift, knew the woman now looked her way – and, suddenly, the pause between them was _palpable_. " _Why_ –" Hawke's voice broke, "why was I different?" She turned to see the full weight of it burning in her eyes, tugging the rogue's every feature. "Why did you come back?"

A frown took her lips – chest _clenching_ – because it wasn't surprise that crippled her, the sudden breach of a well avoided topic – but the utter _confusion_ – as if the other could not possibly _see_ why she was not the same.

And she knew – dammit, she _knew_ – before her mouth even opened, she'd say whatever she had to to prove that _wrong_.

"You…" out of all the damned words that filled her head – **_that_** was the only one that seemed _sufficient_ , "It was _you_ , Hawke. You made it all…not enough." Her brows furrowed heavily. "The drinking, the sailing – the _sex_. Everything that used to be _enough_ …" the pirate felt her mouth work wordlessly – _frustratingly_ – not knowing any other way of _saying_ it.

 _Describing_ it.

She had waited for the feeling to lessen – to _dull_ – nothing lasted forever, and any desire she'd come across was always temporary. But it never **_did_**. What she felt for Hawke…it just _grew_. That **thick** , _warm_ , all encompassing feeling, dictating her every move, taking her every _thought_ …And _still_ – she only wanted _more_. Constantly. **_Incessantly_**. Always in search of more of **_her_**.

One more day of that _smile_. One more day of that _laugh_.

One more day of those _stupid jokes–_

Because all of those things were _right_.

The pirate let her body fall to action, pushing herself to her knees, straddling the other woman to stare deeply into damp, auburn orbs.

That terrible flicker. Fleeting and unsure. An achy sort of hope – bright and beyond reason. So many times, she'd seen it and done nothing…But it was still there.

 _Always there_.

Isabela bit her lip, a startling, sudden heat swelling within her chest.

"There." _Breathed._ "Right there." She traced the curve of her eyelid. "I want you to tell me."

Those brown eyes widened impossibly, Hawke's lips parting only to immediately shut again – orbs pleading, ' _anything but this_ '.

"Isabela…" she said her name as if afraid of breaking it.

Breaking them…

But she _couldn't_.

She **_couldn't_**.

The pirate shook her head: the woman had already given enough over the years – and she was _sick_ of clever. "I love you." She whispered the words again, whispered something _beautiful_ – heart refusing to hold it any longer. "Don't you know that by now?"

And even if the words had come in their usual way – she _saw_ it – the undeniable _effect_ : the woman beneath her stripped bare, heart fragile and easily ruined, wanting nothing more than to be _loved_. By **_her_**. Until, all she could do was hope to whatever bloody deity out there listening, that she _could_. Let herself…have this. Be _this_.

 _Happy_.

Isabela kissed her, placing a delicate hand on the other's chest. "Idiot." The word had no bite. "You've wanted that for such a long time now, haven't you?"

Gaile's lip trembled, tears welling in her eyes. " _I was so lonely_ …"

The _thud_ against her chest was close to _painful_.

_Until you._

The words split her wide open – striking _just the right place_ as they always _did_ – making her feel young and inexperienced. Because, maybe…maybe she had been _too_. Always _running_ …Her happiest times, her worst times – only remembered by her. And, maybe they were just two women – strong and sure – who could take whatever life threw at them – who could _survive_ – but secretly…wanted that person. A person with which to share…

 _Everything_.

" _Waminoda_ …" she whispered the foreign tongue in her ear, the shiver in Hawke's pulse letting her know there was no need to translate, " _Never again_." It was so easy, this promise.

The rogue hugged her close, capturing her lips thoroughly – making long, sweet promises of her own…before Isabela thought to break away. She _owed_ the other an explanation – it the _least_ she could do – and, knowing Hawke, she wouldn't require it of her…But the woman had already overlooked far too many of her blunders; she had no intention of letting herself off so easily.

Gaile eyed her with that curious patience, watching her think – giving her the _time_ for it…A shaky exhale, her fingers curling against the other's skin. "I…knew I could give it." Her eyes met Hawke's, only to flick away. "Love. That was never the problem. It…" a pause; a sigh, "Receiving _it_ , was the tricky part. I think a part of me knew, even then, that I could do it – _be_ that for you – have this thing that could be _so_ …" the pirate faltered, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat, " _good_ …If only I could let myself be loved by you. Because, if I said it…that I _loved_ …" a broken breath, "I didn't want to disappoint you. But that – I could never understand–" twin brows dipped sharply, "how _could_ you?" _Accusatory_ – her eyes finally met hers. " _Why_ would you want to love someone like me?"

The tenderest smile, the woman's face devoid of conflict. "I could have died alone." It was barely a whisper, drenched in emotion. "Died without a home; without a family…" a brief flicker of pain in her eyes – before being utterly washed away with adoration, "You gave me all of those things – you _give_ them." Gaile cupped her cheek. "I want to _live_ , Isabela." _Simple_. "I live to love you."

And that was _terrifying_ , and _beautiful_ , and everything she could have ever _wanted to hear_ … _shaking_ her to her core, _stealing_ her breaths – filling her with such

… _Joy_.

Her lip trembled. A tear rolled down her cheek.

 _Maker_ …

She _loved_ _this_ _woman_.

The pirate felt overwhelmed – unstable. _Full_. A dam close to bursting, with only the need to be _emptied_. " _I'm yours_ …"

" _Yours_ …" an echo – _immediate_ – the woman nodding fervently, the same, unmistakable look in her eyes.

The last, verbal barrier had been torn down.

Their lips crashed violently – and she could _taste_ their salty desperation – _teeth_ and _passion_ – as if they had never _kissed_ before…

It didn't have to be possession. Why hadn't she _seen_ that? That it could be _more_ – that _Hawke_ made it _more_ :

A sense of _belonging_. Without feeling possessed.

She was _Hawke's_.

Hawke was _hers_.

Fully. Utterly–

 _Wonderfully_.

An equal exchange.

Isabela laughed into their kiss, not being able to help herself.

The rogue's lips brushed her own, eyes sparkling. "What?"

She shook her head. "I just had an epiphany, is all." Both of the other's brows shot up in alarm and she swatted her, smile never fading from her lips. "Oh, shush. I was just thinking about the hero and the villain falling in love…" a scoff, the pirate pressing closer, "And what a terrible story that would be."

Gaile smirked. " _Terrible_."

Their lips met again – something slow and deep and _loving_ –

 _Terrible_.

But maybe… ** _they_** were the exception.

Maybe, they both deserved a happy ending.

Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waminoda: 'My love' in Shona. ;)


End file.
